


Heartgrove

by queasy_mouse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queasy_mouse/pseuds/queasy_mouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen hundred years ago, the two islands of Britain and Albion were united as one country, Brettagna, which, if you believe the legends, was full of magic.  But now they're two very different places, as Merlin, the son of the new British Ambassador, finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been so much fun to write, I'm ridiculously glad that I decided to do Paperlegends this year. :) Thanks first to my fabulous artist sripley, whose full artwork for this story can be seen [ here](http://sripley.livejournal.com/51036.html).
> 
> Go take a look, it's gorgeous! <3  
> Thanks also to my very helpful beta, who prefers to remain anonymous but had an extraordinary effect on this story. :)  
> And to the_muppet, for being a wonderful mod and organising the whole paperlegends thing in the first place!

_This is how it ends._

 

A figure ducks out of the taxi. Holding his newspaper over his head to avoid the haze of rain, he races across the paving stones into the station.

 

Inside, he runs a hand through his slightly damp hair (because he never _quite_ manages to cover his head enough to avoid all the rain) and stands by the barriers, squinting up at the arrivals board.

 

11:50 from London Paddington. Delayed _._ Expected 12:03.

 

 _Bloody British Rail,_ he thinks, and wanders across to the little shop to buy an overpriced coffee to drink. While he waits, he considers a baguette – he's hungry, and they smell amazing – but decides that since it's not even eleven o'clock yet, there's probably such a thing as too much overindulgence, even if it is a weekend.

 

Besides, his stomach's feeling a little too unsettled to eat, and it's not entirely because of last night's drinking session.

 

He returns to his post by the barriers, a hand in his pocket covering his wallet to make sure he's not about to be pick-pocketed. You can never be too careful these days. Just last week, Will's wallet went missing in that pub by the bay. He is alone, apart from a few families buying tickets at the automatic machines behind him, and one or two people standing, like him, clearly waiting for someone. Otherwise, the station is strangely quiet, free of the bustle he's come to expect from it. It's probably the ungodly hour, he decides. No one ever wants to be up before midday on a Sunday unless they really have to be.

 

Well, he can think of one person.

 

Deliberately putting the thought aside, he skims through the rain damp paper, which he is still clutching in one hand. It's the usual claptrap. Politicians spending other people's money, small African dictatorships imploding, terrorists bombing things. Sometimes he wonders what the point of humanity is, if all that people are going to do is spend their time killing each other.

 

He carefully avoids the gossip pages.

 

It's a few minutes later when he realises suddenly that the concourse has gone from eerily empty to fairly full. People are suddenly streaming through the barriers towards him, tickets in hand. Clearly the delayed train was rather full. He takes one last sip of his coffee for luck, draws in a deep breath, and throws the cup and newspaper into the nearest bin, heedless of the remaining coffee now dripping through the thin sack and onto the floor.

 

He scans the crowd, and it really doesn't take long enough before he spots a blond head of hair, familiar still although it really, really shouldn't be, not after all these years. He raises an awkward hand, and spots the exact moment at which the blond, also looking around, sees him and moves purposefully in his direction. The blond stops about a metre in front of him. Two sets of blue eyes clash, neither man smiling exactly, but both entirely aware of the other's attempt to look neutral.

 

It is the blond who breaks the silence first. He is infuriatingly calm. “Hello, Merlin,” he says.

 

 

 

 

_Fifteen years earlier..._

_This is how it began:_

 

Merlin looked around in horror. He hadn't realised that it was _possible_ for the world to be this loud before – his school back at home in Britain had been a simple village school, nothing at all like this. It wasn't exactly that the students were being particularly rowdy, just that everything they did was amplified about forty times, as though they’d forgotten that the volume dial on the world could be turned down. Judging by all the brightly coloured posters which covered the lurid pink-painted walls, they were disregarding aesthetic subtlety, too.

 

The teacher – Ms. Nimmy? Nivemuh? Nutmeg? (Merlin wasn't really sure, it was something vaguely unpronounceable and he'd been rather too shellshocked to be paying attention when she had introduced herself to him in the headmaster's office before walking him to his new classroom) – set her hand on his shoulder, and cleared her throat. As if by magic, the room quieted.

 

“Good morning, Year 9,” she said briskly, glaring at the class as though daring them to interrupt. “This is our new student, Merlin Emrys. He's just moved here from London.”

 

There was no response to this except a round of blank stares from the room. A dark-skinned girl with curly hair took pity on Merlin and gave him a faintly encouraging smile.

 

“Let's see,” continued the teacher with the unpronounceable name. She scanned the faces in front of her and settled on the dark girl, whose smile faltered slightly. Merlin, you can sit next to Gwen there.”

 

The girl who had smiled waved and beamed, looking a little relieved. Merlin breathed a prayer of thanks to whatever gods might be listening. Possibly, the people here weren't quite as mad as he'd thought.

 

He slipped into his seat with a quick, nervous smile back at Gwen, and turned his attention to the board where Ms. N had begun to ramble on about projects.

 

 

“They'll be presented over the next few weeks. We'll be going alphabetically down the register, with one presentation each morning, except Merlin,” – she fixed her gimlet stare on Merlin once more – “because he wasn't here before the holidays when we did all the preparatory reading. I do expect you to do your best to get through the required reading on the topic over the next week or so, so that you have background knowledge to understand the presentations. At least it should be relevant to you, considering your name.”

 

Merlin ran his hand along the shell of his left ear. “What _is_ the topic?”

 

There was a snort from somewhere in the room.

 

Ms. N's smile was chilly. “Camelot.”

 

*-*-*

 

It wasn't that Merlin didn't know about Camelot. Everyone knew about Camelot, King Arthur, the Lady Guinevere, Sir Lancelot, and Merlin the Wizard. Of course Merlin had read up on the etymology of his own name – with such a distinctive one, it was rather difficult not to be interested, especially if you were a boy with an almost unhealthy interest in dragons. But back in Britain, the stories had an eerie, folktale quality to them: no one quite believed in that sort of thing any more. So it was certainly novel to hear both teacher and students in Albion discussing topics such as “Chivalry in Camelot” and “A History of Magic” as though such things were historical truth. But here it was accepted as fact that every myth had happened to the letter. More than that: everyone in Albion believed in _magic_. Every school child in Albion knew that magic had once existed in their country, in the same way that every school child in Britain knew that Henry the Eighth had six wives. In fact, some of the most devout followers of the Albish national religion, known only as the “Old Ways”, believed that they were waiting for a prophet to sacrifice himself to the Old Gods and return magic to the land.

 

Merlin wasn't quite sure what to think about that. He'd always loved the idea of magic, but really, even if he'd been born in Albion rather than Britain, and a thousand years earlier, he'd probably have been more likely to be born as a peasant or servant. This did not, of course, stop him dreaming of riding dragons.

 

In fact, it was just such a daydream that he was contemplating when he heard the bell go with a loud peal. He nearly fell out of his chair, and suddenly became aware of the crowds of his new classmates surging towards the door. He bit his lip guiltily, hoping he hadn't missed anything important.

 

Gwen, next to him, was looking at him in amusement. “Come on, dreamer,” she said cheerfully. “You’d better sit with me and my mates at lunch, or you’ll get lost somewhere.”

 

*-*-*

 

Lunch proved to be even louder than the classroom had been, a level of cacophony which Merlin hadn't actually thought possible. Gwen took him over to the window, and showed him where to exchange his meal tickets.

 

“Don't have the spaghetti: the bolognese is terrible,” she counselled. Seeing the grey lumps floating in a brown sauce, he was inclined to agree with her, and so went for the chicken with rice instead. At least there was ice-cream for dessert.

 

Once they'd both collected their choice of poison, Gwen directed Merlin to a table in the middle of the canteen, which Merlin had always avoided like the plague back at his old school. There were a few empty seats at the end of it.

 

“Try not to be intimidated by Arthur, he's all right really,” said Gwen as they sat down.

 

At the head of the table, opposite Merlin, a blond boy seemed to be holding court. Merlin surmised that this was the Arthur which Gwen had mentioned. His face was animated and he seemed utterly engrossed in his conversation as he gesticulated wildly with his fork at the curly-haired boy to his left. To his other side sat a haughty girl with sharp features, who had immediately leaned over to talk to Gwen, entirely heedless of the fact that there were four people, all of whom fell immediately silent, and a table between them. Merlin had the sudden embarrassed sense that he had blundered unwittingly into a very definite hierarchy, precisely what he usually tried to avoid. Just when Merlin was considering leaving to hide in the corner as he was used to, Arthur turned away from his conversation and shifted to focus all his attention on Merlin. His expression was rather unfriendly, and Merlin decided then and there that despite Gwen's reassurances, he did not like this person.

 

“You're Merlin,” Arthur said. “You're in Ms. Nimueh's class with me and Gwen.”

 

“Gwen and me,” Merlin muttered thoughtlessly. He winced, and looked around the table to check if he'd actually said that out loud. Apparently, judging by Arthur's horrible scowl. When Mum had said, “Have fun!” this morning, she probably hadn't meant 'alienate the most popular people in the school with your grammar-Nazi tendencies!'

 

Running a hand through his hair, he tried to pretend that nothing had happened. “Um. Yes, I'm in Ms. Nimueh's class.”

 

Arthur tapped his fingernails against the table, the sound unbearably loud in the silence. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or maybe just waiting to see whether Arthur was going to leap across the table and decapitate Merlin. Then the girl who had been talking to Gwen caught the eye of the curly-haired boy across from her and they both dissolved into peals of laughter.

 

“Oh, I like this one,” exclaimed the girl through her gasps. “He can stay! Gwen, he's an absolute darling! Aren't you going to introduce him?”

 

Looking as though she was suppressing laughter of her own, Gwen obliged. “The darling is Merlin. That's Arthur,” the blond at the head of the table gave him a nasty glare, “his sister Morgana,” the haughty girl, still smirking even though her laugher had receded, “and Gwaine.” The laughing boy gave him a jaunty wave, grinning more widely than anyone Merlin had ever seen.

 

Gwen then vaguely indicated everyone else at the table. Leon, messy-haired and ginger, was heavyset, but he had nothing on Percy, who was simply enormous. Bors narrowed his eyes at Merlin hostilely, apparently following Arthur's lead. Elena, very tanned and very blonde, smiled widely at him, which mostly made up for Mithian's rather lukewarm nod of the head when she was introduced.

 

“So, you're from Britain then?” asked Percy, once ordinary conversation had been resumed. “Which bit? My family comes from Essex.”

 

Merlin had suspected that, considering the boy's rather flat accent. “Good to know I'm not the only Brit. I’m from Ealdor.” He looked at Percy's blank face and clarified, “A small village on the coast. No one’s heard of it, so I always just say London. It’s all in the south-east, anyway.”

 

Much to Merlin's surprise, Percy guffawed loudly. He looked to the others, but they had all carried on with their conversations, unperturbed. Maybe Percy's sense of humour was always a bit weird. “I suppose so! Good to have you on board – I'm outnumbered, here!” he joked. “You can’t talk to Continental Europeans in case you start a war, and you’d think the Albish would be fairly British, but mostly they think of us as their hopelessly straight-laced cousins. And nobody appreciates football properly!”

 

“Oi!” Elena interjected. “I love football, but your Premiership rubbish has nothing on the Liga.”

 

“Oh, you're Italian?” Merlin asked, noting her rolled 'r's. “I lived there for a few years, when my mum worked at the Embassy in Rome.” He turned to Percy with a rueful smile. “I'm afraid I'm not going to be much of a help on the football front though – I've got two left feet and absolutely zero interest in sports.”

 

Elena laughed. “Well, if your mum's at the Embassy, that means you have peace-making credentials, right? You'll need them around here: how Arthur and Morgana have survived fourteen years of life without killing each other or destroying the world, no one's very sure.”

 

“You'd think so, but Mum being the ambassador just means that I know how to cook my own dinner and smile at parties, to be honest. Besides, you've survived eight years of schooling with them, so I reckon you're pretty much safe.”

 

At this, Arthur looked up sharply. “Hunith Emrys is your mother?”

 

Merlin gazed at him levelly. He was not going to be intimidated, he was _not_. “Why?”

 

Morgana and Arthur exchanged looks. Frankly, Merlin was shocked that Arthur hadn't reached across the table to strangle him yet, judging by the face he was pulling.

 

“We're having supper with you next week,” said Morgana, her smile rather terrifyingly friendly.

 

Merlin frowned. “Huh?”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “The reception your mother’s holding at the embassy for the Royal Family?”

 

Merlin paled.

 

Arthur grinned nastily. “Our father is Uther Pendragon. The King of Albion.”

 

When Merlin realised that there was no punchline coming, he turned slowly to Gwen. “You could have mentioned that.”

 

Gwaine lost the struggle to hold in his laughter, and the rest followed him into defeat.

 

Merlin resolved that next time he moved to a new country, he'd actually research the place beforehand. Or at least, pay attention to his mother's lectures.

 

*-*-*

 

Overall, once his first week at Albion International School was finally over, Merlin decided it could have been worse. He was just about adjusting to the noise level, and felt he had found firm friends in Gwen, Percy, and Elena, the latter of whom had turned out to be an adorably clumsy scatterbrain, whose slight accent made everything hilarious, especially during maths. Her absolute inability to pronounce the word “equation” without a zed in the middle proved absolutely hilarious to both of them, much to the irritation of Mr. Gaius, their teacher. After that lesson, they'd resolved to sit together indefinitely. Merlin wasn't entirely sure about the remainder of their group of friends yet, particularly Arthur, who kept shooting strange looks at him when he thought Merlin wasn't looking, and being rather nasty whenever they were forced by circumstances into speaking to each other. Morgana was, he had discovered, frankly terrifying, and not just because she was basically a princess. Now _that_ was a scary thought: whenever Merlin started to consider that he was actually-sort-of-friends with _royalty_ , he felt a little bit dizzy and went to go and sit down. But most of the time, they were just Arthur-the-Prat and Morgana-the-Terrifying to him, so that was all right then.

 

There was, however, one rather large problem. It had only been a week, but Merlin was _bored._ To be fair, like any thirteen year old, he certainly didn't object that the work was far easier than anything he'd studied in Britain, but there was not even one class in which Merlin felt his brain was actually being used. All lessons were held together in Ms. Nimueh's form room, except maths, for which he was in the top set (despite this, they were still doing things he'd studied last year). And _everything_ seemed to have a Camelot theme: from the obvious in history, to comparison of various accounts of King Arthur's life in literature, to analysis of the metals in medieval plate armour in science. There was even a class called Old English, which he thought was really a step too far. Merlin was as interested in the legends as anyone, but he was starting to think that you could have too much of a good thing.

 

“Is it all one big conspiracy?” he asked Gwen in despair as they walked home together on Friday evening. It had turned out that she lived in the suburbs fairly close to the Embassy. “Is the universe trying to play one great big cosmic joke here? I mean, my name's Merlin, I know an Arthur and a Morgana, and I'm currently complaining to a Guinevere. Seriously?”

 

Gwen shrugged and laughed. “Nah, no conspiracy, you're just living in Albion now. It's the AYP which makes everything seem so interrelated.”

 

“AYP? I've got a feeling that I should know what you're talking about but...” Merlin shook his head. “Nope. Not the foggiest. Apparently my brain doesn't do acronyms.”

 

“It's the Albion Youth Program. It's what we're studying in school? AYP is for secondary school til you're sixteen, when you get to choose your Concentrations for the last two years of school. Concs are sort of like your A-levels in Britain.”

 

Merlin sighed. “Well in Britain, there's no A-Level focused on Camelot, at least. I never thought I could get fed up of my own name.”

 

Gwen's laugh rang out across the road. “Better get used to it, Merlin! You're living in Albion now!”

 

*-*-*

 

Though it had been over a thousand years since Britain and Albion had been one country, and their national policies couldn't have been more different, the diplomatic relationship between them remained, for the most part, fairly close. Of course, each nation had its own national stereotypes about the other – to the Albish, the Brits were their staid, boring cousins, and there remained a persistent joke in Britain that the Albish were actually elves, especially considering the almost inhuman good looks of their royalty. (Merlin had made a point of not mentioning this last to Arthur, for fear of inflaming his already dangerously large ego.) Carefully never mentioned in diplomatic negotiations was the slightly shaky history of which nation, exactly, had ruled the other in the past: the location of the old capital of the High Kings, Camelot, had never been determined to any historian's satisfaction.

 

In fact, historical record about the end of the High Kings was shaky at best. Historians on both sides were adamant that the two islands had once been one country, and that at some point the two branches of the family had split down the middle, but precisely where and when the divide had occurred remained hidden in the mists of the Dark Ages. All that anyone knew for sure was that in about 600 AD, the country then known as Brettagna had been one nation of two islands, ruled by the Pendragon dynasty (and full of magic, if you believed in the Old Ways). By 1000 AD, there were two separate nations, Britain (capital London) and Albion (capital Albion), each with separate royalty, society, religion and government. One popular theory was that the separation had begun with the adoption of Christianity: Britain had been Christian for as long as it had existed, but Albion's Old Ways were, even after a millennium, effectively unchanged from the original druidic religion of Brettagna.

 

From there, they'd been diverging for a thousand years. Whilst Britain had moved though the Renaissance by developing democracy, Albion had stuck stubbornly to its monarchy, and the King or Queen was still the absolute ruler. Their only concession to modernity was that the Monarch's Council was now directly elected by the people. Albion was widely seen by the international community as a throwback to a different era, and perhaps because of this, had a queer, esoteric character when viewed from outside. Every so often, some do-gooder (usually American or British) would take a petition before the UN declaring it to be a dictatorship and begging the Security Council to put pressure on the Pendragons to take a step back from the actual ruling and leave it to elected politicians, but since Albion was one of the most liberal and modernised nations on the planet, and no-one in the country itself seemed particularly upset by not being able to vote for their king, nothing much ever seemed to happen.

 

Some might say that could also have something to do with Albion being one of the world's richest and most powerful nations, being literally built on gold and oil, but they would be cynics and therefore not worth listening to.

 

Britain and Albion's shared history was reflected in the addressess of their embassies. The British Embassy in Albion was an enormous compound which housed fifty staff, as well as all the official buildings, a swimming pool, and four tennis courts, and was located dauntingly opposite the high white walls of the Royal Residence.

 

When Merlin had first seen the 'house' in which he and his mother were to be living, he'd thought that it was a joke. The Ambassador's Residence was a mansion of seven bedrooms, two kitchens, and three different reception rooms.

 

“Well, it's certainly a lot bigger than the one in Italy,” said Hunith weakly, as they both stood outside admiring it. She was referring to the three bedroom flat they'd been assigned in the embassy in Rome where they'd lived until Merlin was ten. But then she'd been just a lowly trade representative: now, Hunith Emrys had what was widely regarded as the cushiest and hardest job in the FCO. Cushiest, because of the perks which came with being Ambassador to the richest nation on Earth. Hardest, because it meant dealing with Uther Pendragon, King of Albion, on a regular basis.

 

Merlin considered this as he tied his bow tie before the reception on Saturday night. He'd heard the tales of Uther, of course. How he was perpetually angry, never gave way on policy, and was renowned for being the most right-wing politician Albion had had in a century. He'd tried to re-introduce the death penalty a few years ago, only to be persuaded out of it by his Council, who realised that it would be political suicide on the international stage, gold or no gold. Arthur and Morgana seemed like fairly ordinary human beings, if a little conceited, so surely he couldn't be _that_ bad?

 

He was swiftly disabused of this notion as soon as the ball began.

 

*-*-*

 

The gimlet stare turned upon Merlin had him quaking in his boots. Or would have, if he'd been wearing boots rather than a tuxedo and Italian leather loafers. Quaking in loafers, anyway.

 

“You're Emrys' son. Merlin.”

 

“Y- yes, sir.”

 

“You will address me as 'Your Majesty'.”

 

Morgana gave what Merlin supposed was mean to be an encouraging smile from her place behind him, ceremonial circlet of silver on her hair glinting in the light of the bright lights filling the dining hall. It had the effect of throwing her face into shadow, which frankly made her look creepy and not very reassuring at all. Arthur was just giving his usual half-glare, which was at least familiar. Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the prince's blond hair.

 

“You go to school with Arthur and Morgana.”

 

“Yes, sir – I mean, Your Majesty.”

 

“Morgana tells me that you are good at English.” Uther's tone did not appear to have changed one whit.

 

At the blatant reference to his accidental correction of Arthur's grammar, Merlin felt himself turn red and choke a little on his words. Did Uther know? Did they behead you if you insulted royalty? Arthur's glare had definitely deepened, and Merlin could see that Morgana was smirking unashamedly.

 

“I... do enjoy English, yes, Your Majesty. I prefer maths, however.”

 

Uther seemed to take this to mean that the conversation was over. With a short nod, he told Merlin perfunctorily “Carry on, then,” and strode forward to meet the trade envoy.

 

As Morgana brushed past him, she muttered in his ear, “Chin up, Merlin! That wasn't so bad. No, he didn't know about the Grammar Incident, but did you _see_ Arthur's _face_? Totally worth it.” And then she was gone, in a swirl of her long red dress. Arthur nodded awkwardly to Merlin and, hesitantly, moved to follow her.

 

Merlin exhaled a sigh of relief. First encounter with the Albish royal family: survived.

 

It was rather odd thinking of Arthur and Morgana as actual, real life royalty, though. He'd gotten almost used to seeing them around school, as ordinary students. It wasn't like they had bodyguards following them around or anything like in the Princess Diaries (not that Merlin had read that, absolutely not. It was not his fault if the book had happened to be the only thing lying around in that cottage in Wales they'd gone to that one time!). Albion under Uther Pendragon was famously one of the most isolationist nations on the planet, beaten only by the Democratic Republic of Korea and Cuba. Although Uther had no problem with immigration (encouraged it, even, in order to build up the population of Albion which remained stubbornly stagnant at around seven million), he refused categorically to allow Albion to participate in any international action: Albion was not part of the UN and had not participated in any of the wars occurring in Europe or Asia since the seventeenth century. For this reason, Albion was widely considered a quirk of history by most other nations, and the threat to their royal family was deemed to be non-existent enough that the teenage Prince and Princess were allowed to attend school (particularly since the school was mainly attended by children of diplomats and disgustingly rich businessmen, and hence well-protected) like anyone else, though they were delivered to it and collected by an armour-plated Rolls Royce. So it was really freaking weird to see them wearing crowns.

 

Merlin was shaken out of his reverie by hearing his mother finishing her customary introduction once more.

 

“... and this is my son, Merlin.”

 

Merlin made sure he had his 'official, diplomatic smile' on, and tried to focus on the blonde woman whose hand he was shaking.

 

“Nice to meet you,” he said, desperately trying to figure out who she was, and whether he should be addressing her as Your Worshipfulness or something.

 

“You too, Merlin. How are you enjoying Albion so far?”

 

Oh good, no horrible titles then. Small talk he could do. “It's been great so far. We've only been here a week, but everyone's been very friendly, and the city is beautiful.”

 

Blonde-woman-without-title seemed pleased. “I am so glad you're enjoying yourself. And school? Morgana tells me you've become great friends.”

 

“Yes, Morgana's lovely,” said Merlin, slightly confused at the abrupt change of subject. “I enjoy school as much as any teenager does, I suppose.”

 

The woman, smiling, moved on to join Uther, who was taking his place at the head of the table.

 

Hunith turned to her son. “You have absolutely no clue who that was, do you?” she asked, shaking her head.

 

He grinned sheepishly. “That obvious?”

 

Hunith rolled her eyes discreetly as they began to walk to join the others at table so the dinner could start. “That, Merlin, was the Albish Prime Minister, Anna-Maria Morgause.”

 

*-*-*

 

Apparently, when you were entertaining royalty, a five course dinner simply wasn't enough to impress, as it would have been for every other major dignitary in most countries. No, when you were having the richest king in the world and his children to dinner, there had to be _dancing_ afterwards.

 

Merlin really wasn't sure what to think about that. Especially when Morgana dragged him on to the floor as Hunith and Uther were dancing an awkward and staid waltz, neither appearing to enjoy it very much. Morgana clearly had years of dancing lessons and natural grace; Merlin, two months of intermittently cursing his mother for getting promoted and panicking over Youtube tutorials when he realised that yes, he was actually going to be required to do this.

 

Morgana was doing a rather good job of ignoring him as he trod on her toes repeatedly, and then turned the wrong way, and then nearly dropped her when she picked up his hands and manoeuvred him into dipping her.

 

“Having a nice evening?” she asked.

 

“No, I hate parties.” He was sullen. He _really, really_ hated parties.

 

She laughed. “I can tell! Don't worry, Arthur's suffering more. Take a moment to enjoy his pain.”

 

She nodded discreetly to where the prince was being cornered by an elderly woman with frighteningly blue hair in an enormous quiff. “That's the Duchess Sigane. She's some distant cousin of ours, and always, always finds Arthur at these things to tell him how much he's grown since the last time, and then tell him all about her cats. It's absolutely hilarious!”

 

Arthur's polite smile was decidedly strained.

 

The music changed. “I do believe he's signalling for help,” said Morgana with a mischevious expression. “Let's go rescue him!”

 

“Wha-?” Merlin had found, even after just a week of acquaintance, that it was just best to let Morgana go on with whatever she wanted to do. This did not stop him trying to understand it, however.

 

She was matter-of-fact as she guided him across the floor, smiling sweetly at everyone who caught her eye, but not stopping to chat. “Well, I think he's been tortured enough for one evening, don't you? And besides, I don't think my feet would survive you attempting to jive.”

 

By the time they reached the Duchess Sigane, Morgana's smile had turned megawatt. “Ah, Your Grace, I'm terribly sorry to cut in but-”

 

Merlin might have had to suppress a snigger at the sudden look of hope in Arthur's eyes, but he was too busy panicking over whatever Morgana was planning: that glint in her eye did not look good.

 

And it wasn't.

 

“-but my dear, darling brother has promised to dance with Merlin, here. To show what a liberal, tolerant society Albion is to our esteemed hosts, of course.”

 

Arthur and Merlin both looked at her in horror, but her expression was absolutely innocent.

 

Duchess Sigane was almost clapping her hands in glee. “What a fantastic show of faith, of course boys, off you go!” If Merlin were a less charitable person, he would probably have called the expression a leer.

 

Stiffly, as though Merlin were a bomb which he expected to go off at any moment, Arthur took his arm and they stepped out on to the dance floor.

 

Of course, because clearly the universe had it in for Merlin, as soon as they got there the music changed again, to a tango. The two boys looked at one another in horror.

 

“Um, Arthur,” said Merlin nervously. “I can't dance.”

 

“I know,” said the prince. “I saw you massacring Morgana's feet.”

 

Merlin glanced around, wild-eyed. “Surely you're not planning on sacrificing your precious limbs, too?”

 

Arthur looked grim. “If there were any way to get out of this without embarrassing ourselves in front of a whole roomful of the most important people in the country, including my father and your mother, trust me, I'd be taking it.”

 

Looking around, Merlin saw that yes, indeed, the king and ambassador had both returned to their seats at the high table and were watching their sons intently, Uther impassively and Hunith with a slightly worried expression.

 

“Oh God...” He thought he might faint.

 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Arthur said firmly. “Just.... follow my lead, okay?”

 

And the next thing Merlin knew, Arthur had wrapped one arm around his waist and used the other to link their fingers, and they were off, promenading across the crowded dance floor.

 

The next few minutes were a blur.

 

Arthur's hand in the small of Merlin's back was a warm, anchoring heat. His limbs felt like they were on puppet strings, being pulled around by the prince as they crossed the floor. They were both lead-weight and feather-light at once. He couldn't quite tear his eyes away from Arthur's – blue clashing with blue – had he ever noticed how blue the Prince's eyes were, before? _No, no, what, no, not thinking that._ Merlin focused on his feet, on keeping stride with Arthur as they crossed the floor, occasionally turning in circles.

 

Before he could thoroughly process what was happening, Merlin felt himself being walked to the edge of a dance floor and dragged out of the ballroom by a side-door which he hadn't even noticed. Idly, he considered the irony that the crown prince knew his home better than he did.

 

When they were outside in the corridor, Arthur abruptly let go of Merlin and quickly took a step back, as though he'd been scalded.

 

They eyed each other, like two tom-cats in an alley.

 

Arthur was the first to break the awkward silence. “We shall never speak of this again.”

 

Merlin nodded frantically, and they both ducked back in to the dance, which appeared to have carried on perfectly well without them.

 

Merlin picked up two flutes of orange juice from a tray on the sideboard and wordlessly handed one to Arthur. They both sipped them and watched Morgana being crowded into a corner by the Duchess Sigane, who appeared to have been joined by about a million other elderly women, blocking all potential escape routes.

 

“Karma,” said Arthur, nodding gravely.

 

Merlin snorted into his juice. “Absolutely.”

 

There are some things you cannot share without ending up liking each other, and being forced by an evil princess to tango in front of a roomful of dignitaries is one of them.

 

*-*-*

 

“You are a complete and utter prat.”

 

“And you're an idiot,” Arthur replied. They grinned at each other over their sandwiches. Once, Merlin might have been a little worried about insulting the heir to the crown, but now, Arthur was just Arthur, something of a prat, but a friend nonetheless.

 

“I would have thought,” Arthur continued, “that it was patently obvious that magic did, at one point, exist. Leaving aside the religious connotations of the word, historical record alone shows...”

 

Merlin shook his head vehemently, stuffing another tuna and sweetcorn sandwich into his mouth. “Historical record my arse,” he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. “I realise that the Old Ways are the national religion, _Your Highness_ , so you're practically required to go along with the party line, but if we think about it logically...”

 

Arthur scoffed. “No. Remember I said _leaving aside religious connotations_ about thirty seconds ago? Surely even your tiny brain should be able to remember that far back. Historical accounts clearly show incidents of magic, which cannot be explained any other way.”

 

“You're quite patently ignoring the vagaries of historical record then, prat, because you want to make your ancestors look like all powerful wizards! Look, I'm not denying that King Arthur existed, or that his reign was good for Brettagna, but the idea that Merlin was a warlock rather than just his very clever advisor-”

 

“There are fourteen separate accounts which describe the crown literally being picked up in the air and flying onto the King's head at the coronation. I'd say, considering all the rest of the evidence, that it pretty much suggests sorcery was -”

 

Merlin shook his head vehemently, throwing a piece of cucumber across the table at his prince. “No! You'd have thought that, as a celebrity yourself, you'd have heard of PR! Merlin was a political genius who knew what he was doing, magic or no.”

 

Of course, Arthur pounced on that little slip as though Merlin hadn't done it deliberately. “'Magic or no'? So you at least concede the possibility of magic?”

 

At this point, Morgana rapped sharply on the table in irritation. “Seriously, boys? Enough now. Not that we don't all enjoy watching you two make eyes at each other across the table, but some of us are trying to eat here, and you've had this argument four times this week!”

 

She cast a dirty look at Gwaine, who was laughing merrily. “Oh, cool it, Gana,” he said with a grin. “Those two were born to argue! It's like destiny or whatever.”

 

“Not when it interrupts my lunch.” Morgana was very insistent on this point, so Merlin and Arthur exchanged a series of looks to the tune of 'ok, we'll stop now, carry on later.'

 

Both of them were, of course, perfectly aware that they were in general agreement on the subject of magic – Arthur didn't believe in it any more than Merlin did, but Merlin was more open to the idea than he would ever admit in Arthur's hearing. But disagreeing violently was far more fun than simply conceding that they shared the middle ground.

 

Merlin turned to Gwen, who had been studiously concentrating on her risotto. “So, Gwen, did you finish the geography homework for Mr. Cenred?”

 

*-*-*

 

It was mid-March and a windy day, and Merlin was sitting in his customary spot by Gwen at the end of the table, chatting to her about the physics homework (the force required to deform a piece of plate armour).

 

Gwaine, usually the most exuberant and outgoing of the group, was oddly quiet. That was, until he bashed his lunchbox down on the table and announced loudly “Guys! I have an announcement!”

 

The table went quiet, as it usually only did for Arthur.

 

Gwaine flicked his hair over his shoulders, a peculiar look on his face. “I am now going to proceed to break all of your hearts. I must inform you that you will be sadly, sadly lacking in my presence from next year – my dad's transfer to the Dubai office has been confirmed.” He play-acted big eyes, and threw his arm across his face in sorrow. “Cry, cry if you must! But know that my heart will always be with you as you continue along the winding road of life-”

 

“Oh, shut up,” snorted Percy. “We get it, we'll miss you, stop acting like a girl about it. We've got to survive another three months of you yet!”

 

The mood at the table seemed to break at that, everyone bursting into chatter.

 

“Me too,” said Elena excitedly. “We're going back to Italy, my dad's retiring and wants to go back to the family farm.”

 

Mithian smiled warmly at her. “So you get to be with your horses again?”

 

Elena grinned. “Yes! I'm sure Zucheretto has missed me!”

 

The conversation descended into horse-speak, and Merlin lost interest. He noticed, however, that while Morgana and Gwaine were deep in conversation about America, Arthur seemed to be staring into space with a faintly wistful expression.

 

But then Gwen attracted his attention with one of her sweet smiles again, and like fourteen year old boys everywhere, Merlin forgot about it.

 

*-*-*

 

Ms. Nimueh set down a pile of books on the table with a loud bang, which made several people at the back of the room stop chatting and turn to the front, reluctantly conceding that break was probably over.

 

“Today, class,” she said, looking directly at Merlin, “we are going to talk about sacrifice.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes surreptitiously under cover of taking out his pencil case from his bag. The two boys had moved to sit next to each other after Ms. Nimueh had declared that much as she enjoyed their debates on every topic studied, she'd prefer them not to be conducted as shouting matches across the classroom.

 

“Throughout history and literature, we have examples of sacrifice. It's a major part of the chivalric code – sacrificing oneself for the king, or to protect a person in need. For example, Sir Gawain took up the challenge of the Green Knight to protect King Arthur and his kingdom. Merlin, why don't you suggest an example of sacrifice in literature for us?”

 

“Um...” Merlin paused, then just thought of the book he'd read most recently. “Gandalf in Lord of the Rings?”

 

Arthur scoffed at him, poking him in the side with his pen. “Such a geek, Merlin!”

 

Merlin saw no recourse but to poke him back. “You love that book just as much as I do!”

 

Nimueh clicked her tongue at them. “Arthur, anything to add? Another example, perhaps?”

 

He shrugged. “Jesus Christ?”

 

The teacher looked looked inordinately pleased at this answer. “Yes, precisely! What do you think about his sacrifice?”

 

Arthur's blue eyes, the Pendragon trademark, widened as he was put on the spot. He spoke carefully. “I think that it inspired lots of people, and started a religion.”

 

Nimueh's stare seemed to become a little colder. “So, what do we think Jesus' motivations were?”

 

“I'm afraid I don't know much about Christianity, miss. Our family follows the Old Ways. But, I suppose that saving people would have been a big reason.”

 

Nimueh's eyes strayed to Merlin, before sharply focusing back on Arthur.

 

Gwen coughed lightly, and raised a hand. “Is it proper to be discussing a religious book as a piece of literature, Ms. Nimueh?”

 

Ms. Nimueh shook her head slightly, like a horse ridding itself of a particularly annoying fly. “Well, personally, as a Priestess of the Old Ways, I do not believe that this Bible of yours is anything more than a 'piece of literature', and not particularly well-written at that. But we shall be moving on.”

 

Elena, who came from a rather strict Catholic family and went to church every Sunday, looked rather offended at that, and was opening her mouth to object, but Ms. Nimueh was already bulldozing onwards. Merlin felt at least a little more vindicated in his dislike of the woman, who had turned out to be uniformly nasty and too pernickety even for a boy who corrected other people's grammar on auto-pilot. Also, she had a habit of staring at Merlin and Arthur's table when she thought they weren't looking. Merlin found it extremely uncomfortable and had come up with several conspiracy theories. Currently, his favourite was that she was actually an alien from the planet Zorg, trying to think of new and imaginative ways to destroy the human race.

 

“Now, let's talk about other examples,” she was saying. She clicked the computer mouse, and a powerpoint slide appeared, with a quotation: “They never fail who die in a great cause.”

 

“Lord Byron, one of the poets we studied last term, said that. Now, what do we think about what this could mean for us?”

 

There was one last glance at Merlin, before the lesson proceeded as usual.

 

*-*-*

 

Merlin awoke one morning to the delicious smell of bacon and eggs wafting up through the house. He padded down the marble staircase (and really, he was never going to get used to having an _actual stone spiral stair_ in the middle of his house) to the large kitchen. He found Hunith by the cooker and, kissing her on the cheek, remarked: “What's all this in aid of?”

  
  


Hunith Emrys was a fabulous chef when she wanted to be, but since the move to Albion it had been rare for her to be home early enough to cook, even at weekends. They'd made rather a habit of picking up potato cakes, a traditional Albish bread, for breakfast on Sundays when they were both in, so Merlin was faintly surprised by the sudden switch to a Full English that morning.

  
  


The ambassador smiled at her son. “I don't feel like we've been able to have a proper talk since we got here. I know it's been mainly my fault – when I get in I'm just so tired that all I want to do is collapse in front of the telly, but still –”

  
  


Merlin smiled wanly and hugged her from behind, mindful not to knock her grip on the frying pan. “It's okay, Mum. I know you're just doing your job. I mean, working with Uther must be a nightmare, seriously. And besides, it's me, too: I've been spending a lot of time with friends, even when you are home.”

  
  


“Well, regardless of whose fault anything is, today should be a proper day off for me, so I thought we could spend it together? Have a lazy breakfast, maybe head into the centre of Camelot later to do some sightseeing? I feel like there's so much I've missed by working all the time.” She paused, and looked over a shoulder. “Unless you've got lots of homework to be doing?”

  
  


“Nah, everything here's pretty easy compared to at home. I've finished all the work for this week already.”

  
  


Hunith grinned at her son. “That's my clever boy. Go do the baked beans, would you, love, and I'll check on the sausages in the oven?”

  
  


Once their breakfasts were prepared, they sat together at the breakfast bar that dominated the centre of the kitchen.

  
  


“So, anything new this week at school?” asked Hunith, while Merlin was filling his glass of orange juice.

  
  


“Not really. We're still studying Albion in every subject; whoever came up with this school system should be shot.”

  
  


“Now then, Merlin, I hardly think that advocating murder's a useful way of going about things.” Her tone was even, but Merlin didn't miss her slight grin as she rolled her eyes at him.

  
  


He shrugged. “Why not? They're the ones torturing us with the monotony of doing the same thing repeatedly from different angles. Besides, Arthur agrees with me. And he's the prince, so I'm fairly sure he's actually allowed to shoot people. It's really just a matter of finding the right person, now.”

  
  


Hunith laughed, and Merlin felt his mock-serious face slide off into an answering grin. “I really think Uther might have something to say about that,” she said. “And please, don't let's cause a diplomatic incident because you've been convincing the prince that homicide's legal for him.”

  
  


There was a pause, during which Merlin noticed that his mum seemed curiously focused on her fried eggs all of a sudden. “You're getting on well with Arthur, then?” she finally asked.

  
  


“Yeah. He's all right, once you get to know him a bit better. Still something of a prat, but all right, really.” He looked her over carefully, trying to figure out what the strangely sudden question had been in aid of.

  
  


“Good, good.” But there was no getting answers out of Hunith when she didn't want to give them. There was a reason she was in the most senior post of the Foreign Service.

  
  


Merlin gave up and changed the subject. “Where are we going today, then? Could we go see Castell Camelot?”

  
  


The medieval tower at the centre of the city of Albion had supposedly been the residence of the Albish royal family during the middle ages. Some Albish historians had even tried to prove that it was the site of the  _actual_ Camelot, but they'd been roundly beaten down a few years earlier by documents proving that the castle had been built only after the Separation. It mattered little, anyway, since the royal family had long since abandoned the draughty medieval castle for the more modern (relatively, it was still five hundred-odd years old) Royal Residence across the road. Castell Camelot was now a sort of museum, with actors pretending to be actual knights in armour. Merlin had heard that there was even a giant moving robot dragon in one of the caverns under the castle. (Not that he would ever admit that seeing it was a large part of his interest in the place.)

  
  


“I don't see why not.” Hunith smiled. “It's meant to be really interesting.”

  
  


With its usual impeccable timing, her Blackberry started buzzing angrily from the counter. With an apologetic look at Merlin, she jumped out of her chair to grab it.

  
  


“Oh dear,” she said, thumbing through the messages. “I'm afraid we may have to reschedule the Castell Camelot trip. It appears that the Americans have just suggested that we declare war on Albion because it's a dictatorship. Again. I'll have to call the PM before he gets his knickers in a twist. Sorry darling.”

  
  


Merlin suppressed a sigh, running his hand along his left ear. He should have known that it was too good an idea to last. “It's no problem, Mum. Go save western civilisation from self-destruction again.”

  
  


She ruffled his hair again and headed upstairs, presumably to put on some work clothes. She mouthed “Sorry!” with an apologetic expression as she left the kitchen, but was already on the phone to her personal assistant about setting up the call to Downing Street.

  
  


*-*-*

 

It was a glorious June day. Merlin waved at the security guard as he wandered up to the doors of the Royal Residence. There would have been a time when he'd have been amused at his familiar manner with what were effectively trained ninjas, the members of the royal family's personal guard, but after six months in the country he didn't even bat an eye.

 

“How's it going, Gareth?” he asked.

 

“Not bad, how about you? I hear you've been having troubles with the teacher?” The 'knight' smiled. One day, Merlin might get over the fact soldiers in Albion were still referred to as 'knights' (really, it was like the whole nation was obsessed!), but for the moment it still gave him a thrill every time he thought about it. Living with Albion really was like living in a dream sometimes. Merlin half expected dragons to be swooping out of the sky at any moment.

 

Merlin rolled his eyes and grinned at Gareth as the guard opened the gates for him. “I swear she's got it in for me! Keeps talking about the importance of sacrifice in historical literature and then giving me really meaningful looks.”

 

Gareth laughed. “You're imagining things, mate, I'm sure. Now, in you go, His Highness is waiting for you and you know how he gets!”

 

With a final wave, Merlin headed into the Residence and made his way towards the tennis courts. It had been only three weeks after that terrible but ultimately very memorable ball that Arthur, unusually bashful, had invited Merlin to join the weekly tennis game which he, Gwaine, Leon and Percy had been playing every Saturday morning for a year.

 

“But Percy's decided that he'd rather go back to rugby, so both he and Bors have rugby team practice on Saturday mornings now, and we need another doubles partner, so....” The prince trailed off, focusing his gaze somewhere to the left of his friend's face.

 

Merlin cocked his head. “You do realise that I have the hand-eye coordination of a concussed skunk, and that the chances of me actually managing to hit a tennis ball with a racket are somewhere around, oh I don't know, _zero_?”

 

Arthur grinned. “I'll take that as a yes, then! See you tomorrow.”

 

Merlin decided that attempting to put up any more of a fight probably wasn't worth the effort.

 

So it was that six months later, Merlin dumped his bag in the corner of the court and took out his racket. He watched the game in progress for a while – as usual, he'd join Arthur, who was playing on his own against Gwaine and Leon. Merlin felt almost bad about joining in, since he was invariably a hindrance rather than a help to the prince. After so many games, Merlin had at least managed to acquire the skill of making racket and ball connect about fifty percent of the time – his problem now was that _every single time_ he actually managed to hit the ball, it went flying out of the court completely and usually ended up on the other side of the enormous garden. Who knew that tennis rackets were so damn _springy_?

 

Despite this, Arthur refused to let him stop playing, claiming that he “liked the challenge, Merlin, honestly. It's just so easy to beat them otherwise, and you're a perfect handicap.” To be fair, the prince was the school's top tennis player, despite being only in Year 9, and until Merlin joined in that day had definitely had the upper hand as Gwaine and Leon tried fruitlessly to return his powerful serves.

 

“Hurry up, idiot!” the prince called, without missing a beat as he raced across the court following Gwaine's powerful forehand. Merlin grinned and joined in, ready to work his usual mayhem.

 

Once the game was done (they lost two sets to one, having only won the set which Arthur had played alone before Merlin had arrived), the four boys headed up to the main house for lemonade and biscuits, as had become traditional for them.

 

As they reached the garden, Catrina, the palace's short, dumpy housekeeper thrust a plate of digestives at them with a perfunctory “Don't drop the glasses, they're crystal!” and a glare at Merlin, before stomping away into the bowels of the manor. She seemed to have taken personal offence at Merlin's existence, apparently feeling that he was far too common to be associating with the likes of Prince Arthur. She also seemed to have an irrational fear that he was trying to steal the silverware.

 

They were all flopped down on the impressively manicured lawn, when there came a bellow from the house:

 

“For the last time, Morgana, _no!_ I've told you my feelings on this issue, and there is absolutely no way that I am going to change my mind! _The answer is no._ ”

 

Merlin, Leon and Gwaine exchanged awkward looks, and Arthur stared studiously at the floor. Hearing the King shout at his eldest daughter was exceptionally awkward when her twin brother was sitting next to you.

 

“But Albion's standing in the international community's irreparably damaged every day by your absolute refusal to compromise this ridiculous bigotry!”

 

Merlin sipped his drink carefully. Calling King Uther a bigot? Morgana certainly had balls, but he already knew that.

 

His Majesty scoffed. “No, our standing in the international community will remain exactly the same as it has for the last millennium, and is not going to change because of one tiny element of policy! Now, I have actual matters of state to attend to.”

 

The boys on the lawn were still quiet when Morgana came storming out of the house. Seeing them, she collapsed next to Gwaine with an angry “Hmph!”

 

Arthur looked at her. “UN again?”

 

She snorted. “He's so damn stubborn! If you'd just talk to him – you're the beloved heir and all that-”

 

“Oh, drop it, Morgana! You know I've tried, but he's the _King_ -”

 

“One conversation is hardly trying!”

 

Merlin raised a hand before the argument could get under full swing. “Er – an explanation for those of us who haven't a clue what you're on about?”

 

Morgana responded without ceasing glaring at her brother:

 

“Father refuses to join the UN. In itself, that wouldn't be a bad thing – we could be like Switzerland, remain neutral and all that, but he refuses to donate anything to any charity which does work overseas, because he claims that each government should take care of their own. In the tsunami, we were the only one of the world's richest fifty nations not to help out or even comment! It's making us look ridiculous internationally, as well as being completely lacking in common human decency!”

 

Arthur scoffed. “Now you're exaggerating, and he does have reasons-”

 

“Pah! Excuses, not reasons! Just because someone wasn't born in Albion, doesn't make them not a human being deserving of our respect!”

 

The prince was somewhat speechless, mouth working rather like a fish. Just as he was about to speak, Gwaine raised a hand, waving slightly to distract everyone. “Good to know that I'm actually a person, for a minute there I thought that I was a llama.”

 

Leon shook his head. “If anything, you'd be a great shaggy sheepdog,” he said, in his lightly accented voice.

 

“Me?” Gwaine sounded vaguely scandalised by the notion. “I'm absolutely a lion!” He shook his long hair out gracefully, to good humoured chortling from the others.

 

Arthur waded in. “Well, there's one person there's no doubt about at all. Merlin here,” he put an arm around his friend, ruffling his messy black hair playfully, “is quite clearly a baby deer. Like Bambi. That scene at the beginning where he keeps tripping over everything? That was totally Merl's tennis today.”

 

Merlin felt a crawl of heat up his neck, but joined in the laughter. He gave as good as he got though. “So you're conceding that you've watched _Bambi_? And recently enough to remember that tiny scene? I think we have a closet Disney fan here, people.”

 

Arthur stuck his nose in the air, feining haughtiness. “No, some of us just have extraordinarily good memories. I am, of course, a genius of epic proportions.” He made a show of being shocked by everyone else's complete disregard of the idea. “Besides, it's about hunting. Of course I love it! Hunting is awesome!”

 

Of course, a statement like that meant that Merlin just had to point out exactly why running around chasing poor defenceless animals on horseback was a barbaric throwback. The two of them soon got into a heated debate about the definition of “pest”, while the others just sat back, shaking their heads in resignation, and enjoyed the sunshine.

 

*-*-*

 

Somehow, Merlin survived the end-of-year exams: maths, English and science, as well as a long essay on Camelot, with the prompt “Magic was the primary reason for the success of King Arthur's reign. Discuss.” Ms. Nimueh was as brusque in her exams as she was in person.

 

When they went over it later, of course he and Arthur had diametrically opposing views on that – Merlin had answered in the affirmative, and the prince had waxed lyrical on the importance and skill of the Knights.

 

Hearing them discuss it, Gwaine just whacked them both over the head, with a “I'm only in the country for three more weeks, _please_ can we not spend them re-hashing the exams!”

 

So they all went and ate ice-cream in the park instead.

 

*-*-*

 

And then, Gwaine and Elena were gone.

 

The group waved goodbye to Elena after the last day of school, since she was heading straight off on a tour of Europe with her parents before they settled back down on the family farm in Umbria. Gwen had bought a huge chocolate cake into class. It had been absolutely delicious and demolished by the class within minutes. Even Ms. Nimueh had accepted a slice, despite her disapproving frown and warning not to get icing on the textbooks.

 

Merlin promised to come visit when he returned to visit his friends in Rome, if he ever got around to it. For several days afterwards, his Facebook news feed was covered in what seemed like millions of posts saying “I misssss yooooooou!” between Gwen, Elena and Mithian.

 

Only a couple of weeks later, Gwaine went too. They commemorated his going with a boys' trip to Albion's premier theme park, Dragons' Den. They rode all the highest rides, ate disgusting amounts of candyfloss and spent all their allowances on the fairground games.

 

Gwaine insisted on spending at least ten Albion pounds trying to win a giant pink alien at the basketball hoop. Eventually, Arthur got fed up of waiting and stormed off (a rather comical sight, as he was followed everywhere by two burly Knights all dressed in black and wearing sunglasses, like something out of a film – Leon delighted in taking about a million photos with his phone) to go and win it on the shooting game, which he did in one try. He threw the giant pink plushie at the back of Gwaine's head in retribution.

 

Gwaine, of course, regardless of the fact that he hadn't won it himself, immediately christened the alien “Cedric, the Questing Beast!” knighting it with the toy sword he'd bought earlier. Cedric was about the same height as Gwaine, a fluffy, hot pink blob with four eyes on stalks. Leon took a series of photographs of Cedric's 'quest' to save various other stuffed toys from the 'prison' of various fairground stalls, at all of which he remained spectacularly unsuccessful. Then they wandered off to eat wonderfully greasy burgers and chips for lunch.

 

All too soon, the day was over. Gwaine would go back with his parents to the airport hotel, while the others would avail themselves of royal privilege and taking Arthur's limo back to the city.

 

They paused awkwardly outside the main gates of the amusement park. Leon, Percy and Merlin hugged Gwaine and wished him the best, before standing to one side. Gwaine and Arthur exchanged a long look.

 

“Oh come here, you great big princessy prat.” Gwaine strode forward and hugged Arthur.

 

Arthur grinned into his shoulder. “You've definitely been spending too much time with Merlin, if you're calling me a prat.”

 

Gwaine stepped back and looked at him. “Well, I'm glad that there's someone new to keep you in line now, when I'm gone. After five years of making sure that your ego doesn't destroy Albion, I think it's someone else's turn!”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Oh, bugger off to America. We'll Skype at some point, yeah?”

 

Gwaine grinned. “Yeah.”

 

He waved to the others, and turned to walk up to where his parents were waiting patiently. “Take care of the princess, Merlin!” he threw over his shoulder with a grin.

 

Merlin saluted mockingly. “Aye aye, sir!”

 

Gwaine disappeared into his parents' BMW, and was gone.

 

Later, once the others had made the two hour drive back into the centre of Albion City and dropped off Leon and Percy in their respective suburbs, it was just Arthur and Merlin in the darkened back of the limo, back to the Royal Residence and the Embassy across the way.

 

“You're going back to Britain for the summer, yeah?”

 

Merlin shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of months at least. It'll be good to see all my old mates and stuff. I'm staying with my uncle though; Mum's staying here, she can't get the time off.”

 

Arthur nodded. He seemed subdued.

 

“You alright, mate?”

 

The prince ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah, no biggie. It's just... I hate it when people leave.”

 

“I know what you mean. Perils of an international education, I guess.”

 

“No, it's not really that. I mean, obviously I don't like losing friends, but it's more that these sort of days always remind me of what I can't have. People like you, you're only in a place for a few years, then you move on. I've been in AIS for ten years now. Everyone else goes, but I'm just... stuck. Everyone else gets to go, travel, see the world. I don't.”

 

Merlin wasn't sure quite what to say to that. “I guess. But not all of us have a country waiting for us to rule.”

 

They pulled up at the British Embassy.

 

Arthur sighed. “Yeah. Whatever. I'm probably just maudlin 'cos it's past midnight. Good night, Merlin. We're off to the country estate tomorrow, so I probably won't see you again before you go. Have a good summer, I'll see you in September at school, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Merlin grabbed his rucksack and opened the limo door. “Bye, Arthur.”

 

The car turned out of the drive and drove down the road to enter the Residence through the back entrance.

 

Merlin watched the taillights disappear into the dark.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

_Brrrrrring, brrrrrring._

 

_Brrrrring, brrrrrrring._

 

A hand scrabbled around on the bedside table. Merlin bashed at his alarm clock.

 

_Brrrrrring, brrrrrring._

 

_Brrrrring, brrrrrrring._

 

Why the hell hadn't the bloody ringing stopped?

 

He sat up and looked blearily around the room.

 

Finally figuring out that it wasn't the alarm, and noticing that there was a slight buzzing in the background, Merlin grumbled to himself and rolled out of bed. He grabbed yesterday's jeans from the pile on the floor where he'd dumped them after getting in, exhausted, from his flight from Britain.

 

He flipped open the phone without looking at the display and flopped backwards onto his bed.

 

“'Lo.”

 

The sound of the Crown Prince's voice came through the speaker, sounding far too smug for – Merlin glanced at the alarm clock – _five o'clock in the morning._

 

“Merlin, welcome back. How was your summer?”

 

“Wha – It's – What's going on – it's -” He checked the clock again. No, he hadn't been wrong. Maybe this was all some terrible dream? “ _Five o'clock in the fucking morning._ ”

 

Arthur sounded exceedingly amused. “Yes, well. Hurry up and get dressed, you're coming out with us today.”

 

“Us – what – you?” Merlin really didn't like mornings.

 

“Your mum's already up here, remember? The car'll be along at 5:20 to bring you up here. Wear something warm, and comfortable shoes.”

 

And with that, the prince hung up. Sighing, Merlin looked at it wanly, before calling his mother. She picked up on the second ring, sounding disgustingly wide awake. But then, Hunith Emrys had always worked too hard, and waking up at five in the morning was just part of her daily routine.

 

“Mum?” he asked, stifling a yawn. “Why is Arthur calling me at five am?”

 

“Oh hello, baby,” she said happily. “How was the flight? Sorry I missed your phone call, I was at a dinner with the King. Did you get my text?”

 

“Yes, it was fine, Mum, yes, I got your text, I'm glad the meetings are going well, but... why is Arthur calling me at five in the morning?”

 

“Oh, I mentioned last night that you were home, so he invited you up here to the country house so we wouldn't have to spend the last week of your holiday apart. Wasn't that nice of him?”

 

“But _five am_?”

 

“Well, I think he wants you to come along on the trip today – please try not to be too offensive about it all, I'm just getting somewhere with Uther. I know it's not really going to be your thing, dear, but at least I'll be able to see you before next week this way. We'll have a cup of tea this evening, and you can tell me all about how your uncle's doing.”

 

“What-”

 

“Wear warm clothes and I suggest the brown boots. There's scones in the kitchen if you want some breakfast before you go. Love you, darling, see you in a bit.”

 

Two people putting down the phone on him in one morning. Merlin's first day back in Albion was already not going well at all.

 

 

*-*-*

 

Just when he decided that it couldn't possibly get any worse, it did. Having fallen asleep in the limo, it was a rather sleep-ruffled Merlin who finally made his way onto the grounds of the royal family's country residence.

 

Only to see what appeared to be most of Albion's nobility sitting on...

 

Horses.

 

“Oh, no no no, no no no,” he muttered. “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

Noticing that Uther was glaring slightly from where he stood by an open top Jeep, Merlin pasted a smile on his face, and wound his way through the assembled horses, dogs and men all dressed in the various shades of each noble house, until he reached the sea of Pendragon red in the centre.

 

“This is a hunt,” he said to Arthur after bowing perfunctorily to Uther and casting a glare at his mother when he thought that the King wasn't looking.

 

“Well done,” said Arthur, cheerful and rather smug. The effect was not helped in that he was looking down at Merlin from atop a giant white horse. “What gave it away? Was it... the horses everywhere? The men with guns? The dogs? The sound of horns?”

 

Merlin glared at him. “Shut up.”

 

Arthur pretended to look wounded. “I invite you on the last hunt before school starts up, a most prestigious event, and you don't feel the need to thank your prince profusely, but instead call him a prat?”

 

“You're not _my_ prince – in case you'd forgotten, I'm British. Deal with it.”

 

Arthur mock-scowled. “Come on then, get on the horse.” He gestured to a big brown horse being held by two grooms.

 

“Oh dear Lord, you do realise that the last time I went riding was when I was ten, and my Uncle Gaius bought a lesson for my birthday as some kind of sick joke?”

 

Arthur grinned mischeviously at him. “You can't be any worse at this than you are at tennis! Hurry up, unless you want to be stuck in the car with the parents!”

 

Since “the parents” included King Uther Pendragon, Merlin decided that the horse would probably be safer.

 

He couldn't have been more wrong. After nearly an hour of attempting to keep up with the hunt, by which time the prince was riding at the front, after the fox as though chasing some mythical beast from literature, Merlin had given up and was clinging to the reins as though his life depended upon it as his horse walked sedately down the bridle path. He'd decided that attempting to jump fences probably wasn't the best idea if he wanted to keep his neck.

 

He was wallowing in misery when he noticed that Morgana had dropped back from her place with the other noblewomen to ride by him.

 

“Have a good summer, Merlin?” she asked.

 

“Not bad,” he said, trying to sound a little more cheerful than he felt.

 

“It was a little mean of my brother to spring this on you. But then, he's always been a wilful prat. Like father, like son.”

 

Merlin winced at the venom in her voice. “Has something happened?” he asked carefully.

 

“It's fine, I'm just a bit cross with Uther right now. I mean – not only is this an actual hunt, chasing a poor fox across the bloody countryside for sport, but he just completely rejects everything which is sensible and right and one day it's going to come back and bite him in the arse. He doesn't even think it even should matter to me. After all, I’m not the heir. I was born twenty minutes too late for that.”

 

After a short silence, Merlin ventured: “Erm – Why are you suddenly calling him by his first name?”

 

“I refuse to acknowledge him as my father until he comes to his senses,” she said, nose in the air.

 

Merlin nodded, and smiled vaguely. Really, those penguins in _Madagascar_ were onto a good thing with the whole “smile and wave” system.

 

He was grateful when only a few moments later, Arthur wheeled his stallion around and came back to join Merlin and Morgana, who had now stopped glaring and was smiling sweetly at the world instead. This was somehow scarier.

 

His gratefulness evaporated rapidly when Arthur crooked his finger and a second person on a horse – Merlin recognised him as the Prince's manservant, George – came along side and held up an extremely dead and bloody fox.

 

“For you,” Arthur said imperiously.

 

Merlin recoiled.

 

Arthur put on a pained expression. “You don't like your gift?”

 

Morgana dissolved into peals of laughter. “Oh – you – barbaric – chivalrous – courtship – idiot – prat–” were the only few words which Merlin could make out. He couldn't help but laugh too, at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

 

Arthur looked pained for only a minute more before he, too, collapsed, guffawing loudly, and waved away a very irritated looking George.

 

*-*-*

 

Merlin's class teacher for Year Ten turned out to be Dr. Gary Kellen. Nobody was entirely sure what he had a doctorate _in_ – theories varied from “A History of Magic” (Gwen's suggestion, but then, she was a little obsessed with Harry Potter at the moment) to “How to Rule a Country Despite Being Only a High School Teacher” (Arthur – who swore that King Uther occasionally called the man for advice) to “How to Scare Students to Death” (Leon, in one of his darker moments). Merlin's money was on Dr. Kellen having a PhD in “Fortune Cookie Phrases and other Indecipherable Bits of Advice”.

 

Not that anyone ever called him by his name – everyone, from the headmaster downwards knew him as Dr. K. He was an elderly, white haired man, with the darkest skin Merlin had ever seen. His bright green eyes stood out from his face, a face which seemed to always know your deepest secrets. He was rather large, too, although Arthur assured him that Dr. K moved wickedly fast on a tennis court when he was coaching the team.

 

In many ways, Merlin's second year at AIS was much the same as his first. There were still long, drawn out projects which covered all the subjects for him to do – although he gave daily thanks to whatever gods might be listening that they'd finally gotten over the whole Camelot thing. The Year Ten project for the autumn term was entitled “Religions of the World” - which at least had some breadth to it (besides, growing lotus flowers in biology was nice and easy). Gwen mentioned often that Elena would have hated it – they covered every religion, large and small, but the only one given any semblance of respect was the Old Ways. Merlin just shrugged – it was the national religion, to be fair.

 

“Religions of the World”, however, came with its own issues. Namely, the fact that though Merlin had finally gotten rid of Ms. Nimueh's strange obsession with sacrifice, he now had to contend with an active evangelist in the form of his teacher.

 

It started in the very first week of term.

 

“Merlin, have you thought about your soul lately?”

 

He had just been trying to hand in some maths homework (“How many worshippers would it take for a god to be able to be called 'predominant'?”), rubbed the shell of his left ear and peered worriedly over the desk.

 

“Er.”

 

“Consider it,” said Dr. K seriously, peering over his thin-rimmed glasses. “For when your Soul is in Place, only then will your Soulmate be able to find you.”

 

Merlin backed away slowly. Dr. K always seemed to speak as though dropping Random Capital Letters into his sentences.

 

A few weeks later, out of the blue in the middle of an Old English class, he asked Merlin very seriously if he believed in magic.

 

Arthur, sitting next to him, sniggered loudly, remembering their many debates on the topic.

 

Shooting a glare at him, Merlin expounded his usual theory on the topic, that it had all been a huge and rather brilliant PR stunt by the original Merlin. The teacher just nodded along, until Merlin finally trailed off. Then, he said:

 

“Perversity may be the Life of the Soul, but you, young Warlock, should leave it behind, and listen to your Other Half in your Journey to the Rightful Truth.”

 

Merlin could almost hear the Random Capital Letters fall into place.

 

There was a short silence throughout the classroom. Then the whole room burst into laughter, Arthur guffawing loudest of all. Even Mithian was hiding a smile.

 

Merlin sighed. Of course, Arthur spent the next month referring to him as “Young Warlock”.

 

*-*-*

 

There had been a strange change in their group dynamic, now that Gwaine and Elena were gone. On the first day of term, as Merlin had been about to head for his usual seat at the foot of the table, Arthur had dragged him to the head and placed him in Gwaine's old spot. No-one seemed to think this strange, so Merlin didn't comment. Percy gave him a strange sort of looking grin, but that was all. It did mean that Merlin was suddenly at the centre of all the conversations and plans for the group, rather than somewhere on the periphery.

 

Perhaps there was less joking, without Gwaine. Certainly, it was quieter – he and Elena had been the loudest members. Morgana was slightly louder and more vehement in her rants, as though trying to make up the shortfall – although that might just have been because Gwaine had always been the only person who could head her off when she got started. More and more often, she sat with Gwen at one end of the table, rather than in her accustomed place by Arthur at its head. More and more, she found it difficult to accept Arthur's apathy towards world politics, and she seemed to resent the fact that he was the one who would end up in charge of a major world power, not she. Merlin tried to mediate where he could, but there was only so much that he could do.

 

But the gaps became less noticeable after a few weeks, particularly after a new arrival joined the ranks.

 

Lancelot DuLac was half-French, half-Albish, and the nicest person that Merlin had ever met, except perhaps Gwen. Lance had joined the school at around a month into year ten - an unorthodox point, even for an international school that had people forever moving in and out. He'd spent all of the summer in Cambodia with his parents, who worked for the UN Human Rights commission and often took time out in order to go and save the world and so on.

 

Of course, since they worked for the UN, that “waste of space of a load of idiots doing nothing”, according to one scurrilous expose of the King's private voicemails in a tabloid, Uther absolutely detested them. This may have been a part of the reason that as soon as Morgana heard his name in class that morning (she and Percy were in Mrs. Anderson's class this year, escaping the strange pronouncements of Dr. Kellen), she claimed him as one of their group. He immediately sat down next to Gwen, in her usual spot, so she shrugged and returned to sit by Arthur and Merlin.

 

“Lost your new crush already then, Gana?” Arthur asked snidely.

 

A raised eyebrow, even more terrifying than Mr. Gaius', was turned on her twin brother. “Do you really want to have this conversation with me now, Arthur? Here?”

 

The prince's mouth thinned slightly, and he shook his head, turning to talk to Leon about tennis. _What was all that about?_ thought Merlin. Although, with this particular prince and princess, it was usually safest not to ask that kind of question.

 

*-*-*

 

Merlin was, by this time, a perfectly ordinary, healthy fourteen (“nearly fifteen!”) year old boy. It wasn't like he wasn't aware of the mechanics of sex and romance. He just hadn't been very interested in it. There'd been jokes about Morgana and Gwaine (well, there'd been jokes when Morgana wasn't around, anyway; nobody wanted to risk _her_ wrath), but other than that, their little group had been mainly untouched by romance.

 

Lance's arrival changed that completely. From that first day at lunch, it was absolutely clear to Merlin that Gwen had hearts in her eyes whenever she looked at Lance.

 

And not just because he had a vague sense of observation, either. Gwen was really rather explicit in her adoration.

 

“Oh,” she said in French one day, as Merlin was poring over her homework trying to figure how on Earth she'd managed to conjugate all the verbs, “Lance helped me. Isn't he wonderful?”

 

Merlin, who had a very strong suspicion that Monsieur Lancelot DuLac was a large part of why she'd chosen to take iGCSE French this year, made a non-committal noise. He was only taking the damn thing because his mother had informed him that since it was what most British schools taught, so he should be prepared for when her tour ended and they went back to Britain in time for his A-Levels. Merlin _hated_ French. It was like Italian, which he already spoke fluently after his time in Rome, but somehow the French couldn't spell anything without funny accents and had all these rules that Italians just didn't bother with.

 

Gwen, on the other hand, absolutely loved it, and was top of the class, largely by dint of her “tutoring sessions” three times a week with Lance. Of course, Percy snorted every time he heard that phrase, and Arthur made snide remarks. But Lance simply shot them both a _look_ , one clearly learned from his formidable human-rights lawyer parents. Even Merlin, who was fairly used to Hunith occasionally going into what he joked was her “diplomatic mode”, an icy calm which was more frightening than any shouting, was quelled. And well, Arthur lived with King Uther, and even he knew when not to joke about Gwen and Lance.

 

*-*-*

 

_The dragon roared as they soared across the rain-soaked sky. Merlin huddled down closer into Kilgharrah's neck, whispering a spell to keep himself warm as they swooped upwards to avoid a sudden surge of arrows from the battlements below._

 

“ _Come on,” he called to the dragon. “The pikes are advancing! Move faster!”_

 

“ _Faster, young warlock?” Merlin heard a chuckle in his mind, and suddenly they were dropping like a stone, down, down towards the castle._

 

_Merlin saw a hail of arrows soaring up towards them – Kilgharrah executed a sudden barrel roll and the warlock was jerked off his back – falling, falling –_

 

Merlin woke with a start, feeling himself jerk downwards. But he was alone in his room in the Embassy. No castle, no dragon, no nothing.

 

He sat up, looking around at his alarm clock. 3:24 am. Far too early to get up, especially because it was the Christmas holiday. Three days till Christmas, and he refused to be insomniac over his favourite holiday, even if it was going to be just him and Mum and another round of boring embassy dinners. He envied Arthur; at least the royal family got to spend the break at a hunting lodge in Brega to avoid the politics for a bit. Merlin turned over his pillow, which was drenched in sweat – and were those tears on his face? _No._

 

He went back to sleep, and proceeded to forget all about the strange dream.

 

*-*-*

 

Part II

 

Prince Arthur Myriddin Canute Pendragon of Albion awoke to find himself on the floor, rather than in his king-sized (and wasn't that a joke!) bed. _Was that dragon?_ He'd seen it bearing down on their army, but somehow it wasn't frightening, just a comforting presence with a bright golden light surrounding it, deflecting the arrows the enemy sent their way.

 

And then, a small, dark, shape, fell from the sky, and Arthur felt his heart constrict suddenly, as though all the air had gone out of the world. He awoke, gasping, scrabbling around for purchase on bedsheets that weren't there.

 

The figure seemed to be – well, Merlin. That was only to be expected, Arthur supposed, since he seemed to have Merlin on the brain more often than not these days. But dream-Merlin had magic. Arthur couldn't articulate exactly how he knew, but that golden light somehow had Merlin written all over it. And it felt so _real_.

 

Arthur decided that he must have hit his head rather hard on the wooden logs of the authentic(-ish) floor when he fell. Groaning, he climbed back into the bed, fluffed up his pillows a little, and went to sleep.

 

*-*-*

 

Arthur threw his head backwards on the soft leather of the limo which was now taking him towards school. The winter holidays were now over, and they were a week in to term so he really should have gotten used to the early mornings, but he was somehow still very, very tired. Arthur hadn't really been sleeping very well at all for the last few weeks, though he never remembered the dreams which kept him awake.

 

And the last thing that he needed now was more of Morgana's arguments about Father's latest mining initiative. Intellectually, he knew she was right, and had supported her and Morgause when they'd put the petition to his father to get rid of the scheme, but there was only so much one could do with a stubborn Uther and he just didn't have the energy to argue any more this morning.

 

“They're killing the forest, Arthur! The mining project is set to destroy nearly a hundred kilometres of prime pine forest in Escetia's wild lands – it'll completely undermine Albion's biodiversity, not to mention that that wild land is one of the most important tourist hotspots we have in the north! Thousands of people each year come to walk our trails. The conservationists predict that we could lose fifty million Albish Pounds over the first two years of this mining project alone!”

 

She finally seemed to notice that he wasn't exactly paying attention. Her expression turned somewhat more sympathetic. Emphasis on the 'somewhat' – his twin sister was still, after all, the Devil incarnate. And far too fond of speaking in exclamation marks. Though Arthur had often thought that she'd be the better ruler for Albion.

 

It wasn't that Arthur wanted to shirk his duties. He'd been a good prince so far, and hopefully would be an alright king when the time came. It was just that Morgana was always so much more passionate about everything, and actively enjoyed the whole politics thing. Arthur would rather stick to his hunting and tennis, personally.

 

“Still not sleeping?” M asked softly, reaching a hand across the car towards him.

 

He shook his head ruefully.

 

“You should see someone about it – Doc Lewis? He was really helpful when I had trouble, before.”

 

Arthur shifted uneasily. Morgana's year of terrible insomnia was rarely spoken of, even between themselves. It had led to her collapsing frequently during the day and sometimes even losing her memory of several hours at a time. She was off the sleeping pills now, and had thrown herself into the daily politics of the realm with even more gusto than before, but for a while there, it had been... scary.

 

He made some non-committal mutterings about going if it kept up, but really he could do without the fuss. The media were under an agreement (well, a Royal Decree from King Uther, which it was best to agree to if you valued your business) not to write about Arthur's day-to-day life until he reached his eighteenth birthday, but he preferred not to draw attention to himself by going to a doctor. He could just see the headlines now.

 

IS PRINCE ARTHUR DYING

PRINCE ILL, SEES GP

THE CURSE OF THE PENDRAGONS: BOTH HEIRS SEE DOCTOR

 

Morgana was looking at him as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and didn't like it. How did she do that? Fortunately, he was saved by the limo rolling up to school. Arthur grinned to see Merlin standing outside with Gwen, waving to them. He bounded over, suddenly feeling much lighter.

 

“Morning guys!” he said, more cheerfully than he felt.

 

Merlin smiled, his eyes looking amazingly blue in the wintery sunlight. “Hey.”

 

Gwen smiled absently, eyes already fixed on Lance, who was just crossing the parking lot. _Really,_ thought Arthur. _Those two really need to get over themselves and start dating._

 

Just as he was about to follow the train of thought to its own unhappy conclusion, he was saved his pining by the bell.

 

*-*-*

 

“This year,” said Dr. K solemnly, “the Year Ten trip will be to the most important place of this or any other world: the sacred spot where Magic is at its strongest and the Threads of History and Destiny are Twined Together forever, an Unbreakable Bond as that between the Land and the Old Ways.”

 

Arthur was really starting to see what Merlin meant about the Random Capital Letters. Couldn't the guy just say “We're going to Heartgrove next week” without invoking some kind of medieval ritual, not to mention crimes against grammatical accuracy?

 

And dear gods, he'd just thought the phrase “grammatical accuracy”. He really was spending too much time with Merlin.

 

Merlin was now looking rather confused. Clearly, he had never heard of Heartgrove. Arthur mentally rolled his eyes. You'd have thought he'd have done _some_ research by this point. Arthur leaned closer to him and whispered:

 

“Heartgrove, centre of the Old Ways, supposed to be very sacred and magical and stuff. It's basically a big clearing with a tree in the middle; we have to go every year for the Midsummer Ceremony.”

 

Unfortunately, Dr. K had heard his little side-explanation, and was glaring at them exasperatedly. Arthur gave him his best Prince Pendragon Patented “who, me? Never, I'm a lovely innocent little boy” smile, experimentally proven to work on every single servant or nanny he'd ever had. It had explained rather a few broken Ming vases over the years. Was it his fault if footballs sometimes seemed to have a life of their own around him, and enjoyed destroying ugly ornaments?

 

Apparently, the Prince Pendragon Patented smile worked, somewhat, because Mr. K looked mostly mollified.

 

“Yes, well, far from merely being, and I quote, 'a big clearing with a tree in the middle', Heartgrove is an extremely Sacred Area, which we are privileged, despite not all of us having yet discovered the Truth of the Old Ways,” he gave Merlin a significant look, “to be allowed to see.”

 

Arthur grinned and poked his friend in the side. Really, it was too funny the way Mr. K seemed to be obsessed with converting Merlin to his fanatical Old Ways.

 

Looking across the rest of the class, Mr. K addressed the details of the trip, thankfully dropping most of the Random Capitals. “The bus will be leaving promptly at seven am, on the twenty second of February. Anyone late, we will not wait for you. Girls, you must remember not to wear hair ties of any type, as loose hair is a sign of respect. You will also all be given a Morteus blossom to carry when we reach the grove. If you are found in Heartgrove without one, you will be immediately thrown out, lest you pollute the spirit of this Holy Place.”

 

Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes only because he was going to be the nominal head of this religion one day. Yet another duty which Morgana would be better at. She believed in all that Magic stuff; Arthur simply thought that if it had existed, it was clearly gone now, so not worth worrying about. Not, of course, that he'd ever admit that to Merlin during one of their debates. The other boy looked far too cute when flushed.

 

Arthur wondered idly whether Merlin would object to being called cute. _Probably,_ he decided. That didn’t stop Arthur using the word all the time in his head, of course. He’d first realised that he found boys far more interesting than girls when he was twelve. He had decided that girls were boring and told his father at supper one evening that he was going to marry a boy because they were more fun. (Morgana was not pleased by the statement and had hit him very hard, breaking his nose. He conceded later that he’d deserved it.) Arthur had always been a rather forthright child.

 

That had led to a very, very awkward conversation with Uther. Arthur still cringed to think about it, but at least the king had been supportive and understanding, even if he had held about fifty crisis meetings with the council about the royal succession (Arthur had only known about those when he’d accidentally found the minutes in his father’s office, years later). But still, he felt that there were probably better ways to find out about your mother’s bisexuality than in the middle of “the talk”.

 

And then Merlin had arrived. Arthur wasn’t sure whether Merlin liked him in the same way. He so far hadn’t worked up the courage to risk their friendship by saying anything. But since no-one was policing his thoughts, he could use words like “cute” and “sweet” with impunity.

 

*-*-*

 

At lunch that day, Merlin made an announcement. “So, I think I should actually celebrate my birthday this year.”

 

Arthur looked up in surprise. He'd just sort of assumed it was in one of the holidays. Apparently not.

 

“Yeah, it's this Friday. So, I thought you guys could all come over to mine, we could do a movie night? I was thinking a _Star Wars_ marathon, or a _Doctor Who_ marathon; lots of popcorn, that sort of thing?”

 

Before anyone could answer, either positively or negatively, Arthur found himself interrupting loudly. Really, if he was going to be King he should focus on that brain-mouth filter thing.

 

“Wait, what? This week? Why didn't we know this?”

 

He immediately felt a bit bad, because Merlin looked rather uncomfortable. “Well, last year I was so new at this point I didn't really know anyone or want to make a big deal of it, so...”

 

Morgana took over as he stumbled. There were times when he objected to her slightly overbearing tendencies, but this was not one of them, as she saved him from putting his foot in his mouth once more. “What Arthur means is that he's only sorry because he wishes he had more time to get you a proper present, and of course we'd love to come over on Friday, and so would everyone else here. Seven okay?”

 

Merlin was nodding mutely, when Gwen awkwardly raised a hand.

 

“Um... Lance and I will come by later, if that's all right. If everyone's staying over, it should be okay, right? We’ve got last-minute tickets to the Green Day concert that night… we _could_ cancel…”

 

“Of course you can come later,” said Merlin, not bothering to stifle his grin.

 

Arthur laughed. “We're all just glad you two have finally got your act together!”

 

There was a chorus of “Hear hear”s and “Finally!”s from around the table. Arthur grinned, giving Lance a slap on the back in congratulation at finally, _finally_ getting over himself and just asking the girl out.

 

Now, there was the small issue of him doing the same.

 

*-*-*

 

Arthur was a heavy sleeper, but even his rest could not survive Merlin treading on him in the middle of the night. He sat up sharply with a yelp, and found himself with a lapful of friend as Merlin fell over his own feet in shock at the sudden movement. They untangled themselves from each other and the sleeping bag with difficulty.

 

“What on _earth_ are you doing?” Arthur whispered once he was free. He looked around the room. Everyone else was still peacefully asleep, exhausted after their late night of films and unhealthy food. Percy and Mithian were curled around one another, Gwen and Lance had their hands reached out, just touching each other in their sleep. They'd wandered into the embassy at about eleven thirty, defiantly holding hands. Leon was snoring loudly in one corner, and Morgana had commandeered a settee to herself and was resting her head over an armrest, appearing to frown at whatever she was dreaming about.

 

“I’m hungry!” said Merlin, eyes looking impossibly wide in the darkness. “I’m going to make some brownies.”

 

Arthur picked up his phone from where it sat near his pillow and checked the time. “You’re making brownies at four am.”

 

“Yes! It’s my house, I can make brownies whenever I like! Want to join me?”

 

Unfortunately, saying no to Merlin was not a skill which Arthur had cultivated very much over the past year.

 

“Fine, then,” he said. “But only because you'd probably just kill us all in a house fire or something if I let you do it alone.”

 

Merlin grinned at him happily. “Prat.”

 

They found a box of brownie mix in the back of the cupboard, added eggs and water, and stirred vigorously. Arthur turned to pre-heat the oven, since Merlin claimed that it was “the spawn of the devil, designed to electrocute unsuspecting Merlins” because it had too many buttons. He turned to find Merlin, stirring way too vigorously and covering himself in the brownie mix, splashing it across the kitchen.

 

Arthur laughed aloud. “Mix in bowl, Merlin. That's what bowls are for.”

 

“I think it's ready to go in,” said Merlin. He held out the wooden spoon. “Taste!”

 

Arthur couldn't say, later, what had made him do it. Maybe it was the late night, or the fact that Merlin looked absolutely edible covered in chocolate. It was probably just that his hands were all buttery from greasing the tin. He leaned forward and licked a long, slow stripe up the end of the spoon. He looked up through his lashes and saw Merlin staring, a very strange look on his face, mouth slightly open, and his little pink tongue subconsciously darting to wet his lips.

 

“Um... yeah,” stuttered Merlin. “Done?”

 

Suddenly Arthur felt awkward and blushed scarlet, becoming very aware of the blood rushing southwards to somewhere he really didn't want it to go right now. Maybe that had been a bad idea. “Y-yeah, I think that's done.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Right.”

 

Merlin turned away to pour the mix into the tin. Arthur took the opportunity to put the counter between them. He wasn't hiding exactly. Just... strategically positioning. Yeah.

 

When Merlin had put the brownies in the oven, he turned around, colour high on his cheeks. “So, I'll just go... um... change my pyjamas. These ones are covered in chocolate.”

 

He practically fled up the stairs.

 

Arthur took the opportunity to go to the bathroom himself.

 

When they met again, half an hour later in the kitchen to take out the now finished brownies, Merlin refused to meet Arthur's eyes. Apparently, he was under the impression that there was some kind of unspoken agreement never to mention the incident again.

 

 _Well,_ thought Arthur, as he watched Merlin chew a warm brownie, covering himself in crumbs. _Fuck that._

 

*-*-*

 

Part III

 

It wasn't that Merlin was avoiding Arthur, specifically, after the Kitchen Incident, as he liked to refer to it. Because, actually, what on Earth was he talking about, Merlin was _absolutely denying_ the existence of said Kitchen Incident. In fact, in his absolute refusal to acknowledge anything, he was debating denying the existence of kitchens at all. But that might have been a bit silly, since he'd eaten his breakfast in one about twenty minutes ago.

 

Over the week since the Incident may or may not have occurred, Merlin had sort of maybe come to the realisation that he might be sort of maybe a little bit... not as straight as he'd previously assumed.

 

That was not to say he was _gay_ , of course. That was a big word – well, not really, but it seemed to take up a lot more space in his head than three short letters should have warranted. But, well. There was really no denying that in the kitchen that evening, as Prince Arthur had eaten brownie mix off a spoon, Merlin had felt a sudden and absolutely undeniable desperation to kiss him.

 

He'd spent the weekend telling himself that _oh dear God no_ , it was a momentary impulse brought on by the fact that it had been a ridiculous hour of the morning. He'd about come to terms with that idea until Monday rolled around and all his illusions were gone in an instant, when Arthur bounced out of his limo and Merlin was struck by the absolute imperative to reach out and _touch_.

 

And that was when he realised that he was completely and utterly fucked.

 

Unfortunately, not in the good way. How Merlin got through the next few minutes before the bell rang, he would never be able to say, but he somehow managed to vaguely make small talk with the others before fleeing into class. He got more maths questions wrong that day than in the rest of the year put together.

 

Needless to say, Merlin found a lot of lunch meetings and last minute assignments had suddenly sprung up in the past week – he even had to miss the weekly tennis match, which he hadn't done even once since he'd started playing, not even that one time he'd had a fever; Arthur had pouted, so of course, he'd battled through it and collapsed after.

 

...actually, that made a lot more sense now. Oh dear. Apparently this had been going on for quite a while; he just hadn't noticed.

 

But if Merlin Emrys was anything, he was a practical person. So he had, after a week of confusion, come to a very simple conclusion: it didn't matter.

 

Apparently, Merlin was attracted to the Prince of Albion. That was okay. But absolutely not worth considering further, because there was absolutely no way that the affections could ever be reciprocated. Arthur was Arthur: clever, handsome, noble, royal – even if he was a bit of a prat. (Not that Merlin would ever use any of those adjectives to his face.) Merlin, on the other hand, was, well, Merlin.

 

So, Merlin had decided that instead of avoiding Arthur (not that he had been, really), he was just going to pretend that nothing had happened and that he'd never noticed how utterly kissable his best friend in Albion happened to be. After all, Arthur was straight.

 

Merlin had deliberately avoided googling “Prince Arthur Pendragon” to drool over pictures of him because that was just weird, and he might have been a hormonal fifteen-year-old, but he wasn't a hormonal fifteen-year-old _girl_. More precisely, he decided that if it didn’t show up in his search history, it hadn’t happened.

 

And now he was standing in the cold of the car park, waiting for the bus to Heartgrove for the school trip which Dr. K had been obsessed with for weeks. His efforts to convert Merlin seemed to have become even more frequent than usual as the trip got closer, which was rather disconcerting.

 

Speak of the devil – the man himself approached Merlin. He patted him on the head, absently, muttered, “Follow your Heart, Young Warlock, and do not be Afraid of Destiny” and wandered off again.

 

Merlin shook his head, and went back to considering Arthur. He was all set to start his new plan of denial-but-back-to-normal, when the prince himself swung out of his usual limo, looking rather angry, definitely angrier than Merlin had seen him for a while. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the prince grabbed Merlin's arm and manhandled him onto the bus, pushing him onto a seat in the far back corner and then dropping down beside him, boxing him in. Their other friends sat around them, chattering amongst themselves.

 

“We are going to talk,” said Arthur in an ominous undertone to Merlin.

 

“Okay?” said Merlin, rather nonplussed. “What do you want to talk about?”

 

Arthur seemed to glower even more. “Not now. When we get there.”

 

Having thoroughly confused his friend, the prince proceeded to pull out his iPod headphones and ignore Merlin for the rest of the journey. Merlin spent the hour-long bus ride staring out the window, wondering what on Earth was going on now, and desperately trying not to think about the warm body beside him.

 

*-*-*

 

Heartgrove, it had to be said, did, to Merlin, look a lot like a big clearing with a tree in the middle. Admittedly, big might have been an understatement; there was enough space for at least two hundred people to stand comfortably around the huge tree in the middle, which had a trunk which looked to be at least five metres in diameter.

 

The centre of the tree was cut out to form an altar, which Dr. K had enjoyed spending an hour explaining was still used for the biannual rituals at Beltane and Midsummer. Morgana, her Morteus flower balanced prettily behind one ear, had explained to Merlin that she and Arthur had been forced to attend those particular rituals all their lives, despite their otherwise fairly lacklustre adherence to their state religion.

 

Normally, Arthur would have been the one to explain that, but he was too busy glaring at the back of Merlin's head, for some unfathomable reason.

 

Merlin twisted his own Morteus flower between his fingers, stopping as soon as he noticed that it was looking a little droopy. Destroying a Morteus was probably some kind of high treason or something, and Arthur was already cross enough. The Morteus flower, Albion's national symbol, was only grown in the area around Heartgrove, and various very stringent laws prevented it being taken outside that area without the King's personal permission. Each blossom was worth thousands of Albish pounds on the black market, but the security guards watched everyone like hawks on the way in and out of Heartgrove, so although every schoolchild, as was traditional, carried one, none of them ever managed to get one back out past the Knights.

 

Of course, Morgana was all in favour of changing the law to allow the Morteus to be commercially cultivated and sold, muttering something about “cultural exports” and “tax revenue”. (Merlin had absolutely zero interest in economics, so just nodded wisely.) But Uther was as traditional and stringently anti-change on this as everything else. His daughter had been known to declare – to journalists, no less! - that it was a good thing that Albion had a long history of strong Queens and heroines, from Queen Guinevere to the original Morgan le Fay to the female army chief Isolde the Impaler, otherwise there'd probably still be legislation against women working. As it was, however, four out of the eleven King's Council members were female, and Albish companies had some of the best records in the world on equality and inclusion. Arthur just rolled his eyes, and pointed out that their mother had been a working doctor as well as Queen, so Uther clearly had no problem with strong women. Morgana would whack him on the shoulder, and declare that that _'wasn't the point!_ '.

 

Merlin was considering his flower absently, and wondering why it was that every single thought he had these days seemed to lead back to Arthur, when he suddenly found himself spun around, back against a tree, with the Crown Prince of Albion leaning down over him. Panicking, Merlin flailed wildly, realising that this wasn't just _any_ tree, this was the _Heart_ tree, the most sacred bloody spot in the entire country, and they were only hidden from the view of their teachers and the rest of the class because Dr. K was very caught up in his discourse on the history of the Old Ways and -

 

Oh. The crown prince appeared to be kissing him.

 

Arthur drew back, panting slightly, face very flushed. “Okay, this is what is happening. You and I are going to go out to dinner or a film or whatever people do on dates, and we will then kiss, a lot, and you will be my boyfriend. I would say that I'm sorry about randomly kissing you just now, but I'm not, and really, I've been dropping hints for about six months, so if you haven't noticed by now, you really are an idiot, but I know you're not because you're kind of awesome and I sort of love you, hence the fact that you're going to be my boyfriend except maybe it would have been better if I hadn't told you that right now, okay?”

 

“Guh,” said Merlin.

 

Arthur looked suddenly shamefaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you or anything, and obviously I’m not trying to force you to go out with me, but you haven’t said two words to me all week and it’s horribly frustrating not having you around, you even missed the tennis match…” He trailed off, turning a bright shade of red, and started to back away.

 

Merlin, having mostly recovered his wits, noticed that the prince was moving in what he considered to be the wrong direction and did the only thing that seemed to be possible at the time. He leaned forward, and kissed Arthur again.

 

Neither of them noticed that the class had finished the lecture and walked around the tree until they were the centre of a round of rather shocked applause and a few “finally”s from Morgana. Even Dr. K was muttering something about Destiny, sounding almost Approving.

 

Merlin didn't bother about all that though, because Arthur held his hand all the way home.

 

*-*-*

 

“ _I have magic.” Merlin felt so nervous he was on the verge of collapse. But Uther was dead, Arthur was crowned, and he had to say something. He had to say it now, because the King had just kissed him, and it all sort of blurted out then because having King Arthur of Camelot kiss you without warning was enough to fry anyone's brain._

  
  


“ _Yes,” said Arthur, looking at him steadily. “I know.”_

  
  


“ _Oh.”_

  
  


“ _Really, Merlin, I'm not_ actually _an idiot,” he said. “Do you think I really am blind? I've suspected since Ealdor, and known for certain for quite a while now. Were you trying to be subtle?”_

  
  


“ _Yes?”_

  
  


“ _Good thing that you had me around to be keeping an eye on you, then. Now, may we please get back to the kissing?”_

  
  


_Later, when Merlin had drawn patterns on Arthur's skin while whispering about Destiny, the king looked down at his sorcerer with a vaguely awed expression. “We're going to build the greatest kingdom ever seen, aren't we?”_

  
  


_Merlin's eyes flashed gold. “Oh yes, Sire.”_

  
  


*-*-*

  
  


Somewhat surprisingly, at least to Merlin, dating the Prince of Albion wasn't really very much different to being one of his best friends. They still argued about everything from the existence of magic (but just for fun, they'd now swapped sides so that Merlin was arguing for and Arthur against) to which Doctor Who actor was the best (Arthur had a thing for Matt Smith, while Merlin was a traditionalist and felt that clearly, David Tennant had the edge in terms of both looks and cool) to whether or not facial hair was attracted (Merlin told the prince in no uncertain terms that if he were going to grow that goatee thing he'd been thinking about, he was resoundingly dumped. Arthur pouted for several days, and Merlin had to resort to kissing to show that he'd been joking).

  
  


They still sat together in every lesson where it was possible, snarking at one another and fighting to outdo each other in everything, just for the hell of it. They still played tennis on Saturday afternoons. The only difference now was that whenever (rarely) Merlin managed to actually score a point, Arthur would celebrate by snogging him soundly, rather than merely looking pleased and clapping him on the back. This led to various tennis balls being lobbed at them by Leon when they got too caught up in said snogging to return to the game. Even Lance, who had taken over from Gwaine as his doubles partner, looked a little put out the fifth time this happened in one match. Merlin simply couldn't explain his sudden improvement in tennis ability, except that snogging Arthur was one hell of an incentive.

  
  


Eventually, since Leon declared that he'd “like to play a proper game of tennis at least once a month, please, one without the random snogging every ten seconds,” Merlin retired from the games without much regret and sat drinking iced tea in a corner with Gwen, who had come to support Lance. Instead, Morgana took his place on Arthur's team, and they won every match by a huge margin, except where they stopped to argue in the middle of a game and got distracted, almost handing away the points to Lance and Leon. Either way made extremely entertaining viewing.

  
  


After the tennis games, the six of them would usually walk into Albion city centre and have dinner in town together. Merlin still thought it rather extravagant, having a restaurant meal once a week, but it wasn't as though anyone in the group was really worried about the cost. Besides, with Arthur and Morgana in tow, they usually got served for free. Merlin had even just about gotten used to being followed around by Knights in black all the time.

  
  


At least there was a complete moratorium on press articles about Arthur and Morgana before their eighteenth birthday. It had been negotiated when the whole nation was still in mourning for Queen Ygraine, so was fairly lenient towards her children. This meant that Arthur and Merlin could wander down the street hand in hand without being too worried about paparazzi, though they did attract a few stares. Arthur brushed it off with a smile, used to the attention, but Merlin couldn't help but gawk back a little.

  
  


He was in even more shock the first time that he was asked to sign an autograph. It was a small blonde girl, who looked about five years old and was dressed as a fairy. She marched up to Arthur, harassed looking mother in tow, as they headed towards the hamburger restaurant which had been Leon's choice that week. She then declared loudly that her her name was “Violette, with two Ts and an E at the end, and would you please sign my book Mr. Prince Your Highness Sir.”

  
  


Merlin hid a smirk at this unusual form of address, but if Arthur was equally amused he gave no sign. Instead, he smiled his official 'I'm a prince' smile and bent down to sign the bright pink and sparkly notebook which he was offered.

  
  


“Who's that?” she asked, pointing to Merlin as the prince stepped back and took his boyfriend's hand, and then simply neglected to let go.

  
  


“This is my boyfriend, Merlin,” said Arthur with a rather more natural grin.

  
  


“Can he sign my book, too? Merlin's my favourite wizard _ever_. I have magic too!” Violette waved the wand with a star on the end which appeared to match her lurid pink fairy dress and tiara. The overall effect, when added to the sparkly notebook, was to make her seem like one large pink sequin. Merlin hid a grin. “I want the wizard Merlin to sign my notebook!”

  
  


Her mother, standing a slight way back, shook her head and moved as if to step forward and collect the child before they hit a full-blown tantrum, but Arthur's grin widened and he waved her away.

  
  


“Of course Merlin will sign your book,” the prince said. “He's very important to me, and a very powerful warlock.”

  
  


Merlin's heart swelled a little at the matching expressions of entreaty on the faces of Arthur and Violette as they looked up at him. What could he do then but bend down to sign the book?

  
  


“ _To Violette, with love from Merlin. Stay magical!”_

  
  


Though that was the first time that Merlin signed an autograph, it was certainly not the last. Even when they weren't being stopped by people on the streets, Merlin could have sworn that the whispers were following them along as they walked.

  
  


“Just ignore it,” said Arthur in his ear. “You'll get used to it.”

  
  


He was right – now, a few months later, Merlin was no longer uncomfortable with the stares and the whispers. But he was pretty sure that he and Arthur were Albion's worst kept secret, and he couldn't help but wonder when it was all going to blow up in his face.

  
  


Today, the post-game restaurant of choice was a small sushi bar which had just opened in one of Albion's larger shopping centres. It had been Morgana's turn to decide, and she was always keen to try new cuisines, despite the fact that Arthur continued to maintain that he hated the taste of squid. Merlin suspected that today's decision was revenge for last week's takeaway curry, which Arthur had chosen. Morgana had a strange aversion to curry. But there was a tacit agreement that everyone shared the meal, regardless of tastes, so she'd saved her revenge until today.

  
  


Arthur was walking on ahead with Leon, and Morgana had dropped back to talk to Merlin. Lance and Gwen were, as usual, in their own little world, arms around each other as they wandered down Albion main street.

  
  


“You're good together, you two,” said Morgana after a short silence, smiling lightly and nudging Merlin in the arm. She seemed happier today than he'd seen her for a while.

  
  


Merlin ran his hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

  
  


She raised an eyebrow. “I wasn't being facetious. I'm glad that you're such a sweet couple. Of course, we could all tell that you two were destined from the first time you met, but still. It's nice.”

  
  


Merlin bit his lip, not really sure where she was going with this. “Um, okay?”

  
  


Morgana glanced forward to where Arthur was slapping Leon on the back, before fixing Merlin with a stare that could have frozen fire. “Now that you've made it for a few months and it seems to be a lasting thing, and with summer coming up soon, I just felt I should warn you, Merlin. Friend or not, if you break my brother's heart I will destroy you. Are we clear?”

  
  


Merlin gulped. “Yes. Right. Crystal. No heart-breaking. Got it.”

  
  


The princess smiled sweetly, far too sweetly for Merlin's comfort. “Just so we're clear on that.”

  
  


He was very thankful when Arthur stepped away from Leon and draped an arm around each of their shoulders. “I think,” said the prince, “that we should have a party. To celebrate the end of the year.”

  
  


Morgana's mouth twitched a little, as though she were trying not to laugh. “Would this happen to involve lots of drinking and possibly the Residence pool?”

  
  


Merlin's heart leapt a little at Arthur's mischievous grin. “You know, maybe there is something to that myth about twins being able to read each others' minds.”

  
  


*-*-*

Fortunately for the crown prince, since the legal drinking age for wine and beer drinking in Albion was fourteen, and he would be hitting his sixteenth birthday that summer, King Uther actually allowed the party to happen.

  
  


Of course, the guest list was carefully vetted (although eventually the king gave in and their entire year group was invited), all bags were searched at the door and electronic devices confiscated, and the atmosphere of summer pool party was somewhat dampened by the fact that there were burly Knights in black standing around everywhere. King Uther himself had escaped to one of his country houses for the duration, probably to avoid the shouts of fifty-odd year tens in swimming costumes running all over his grounds.

  
  


None of the precautionary measures had stopped the teenagers in the room from getting pleasantly tipsy on the rather high quality wine and beer which had been provided for them by the palace cooks, along with an enormous selection of party food.

  
  


Everyone was splashing around in the pool, sunbathing on loungers, or playing tennis on one of the courts. Despite Merlin's initial expectations, Arthur was not among this last group. Instead, he was sipping a beer at the side of the pool and chatting to Sophia, a girl from Morgana's class who was wearing the skimpiest bikini Merlin had ever seen.

  
  


He tried very hard to concentrate on his conversation with Gwen, who was talking about the latest film she'd seen in the cinema with Lance. Arthur and Merlin had seen it too, on one of their dates, but although Merlin had absolutely loved it he couldn't quite keep his attention on rhapsodising about it when Sophia was reaching out to touch Arthur on the arm and stepping closer and  _the prince wasn't stopping her_ . 

  
  


“'Scuse me,” he said to Gwen. Noting the direction of his gaze, she grimaced slightly and waved him off, turning to chat to Freya who was sunbathing nearby.

  
  


Merlin took another swig of his beer. It wasn't that he didn't trust Arthur, he rationalised, slightly tipsily. But something about Sophia, he'd always disliked. That was all. Really.

  
  


He wandered over to where they were standing, looping an arm around Arthur's waist. “Hey,” he said.

  
  


Arthur looked down at him with a smile. “Hey.”

  
  


Merlin was somewhat gratified to note that Sophia was now glaring daggers at him, an expression which melted away extraordinarily rapidly as soon as the prince's attention returned to her.

  
  


“Soph was just telling me about her dad's place in Toulouse,” said Arthur. “It sounds very nice.”

  
  


“I'm sure it does,” said Merlin, making sure to put on the sweetest tone he could manage. No one could say that he hadn't been learning from Morgana.

  
  


Sophia's eyes flicked between them, then she stepped back a little. “I think I'll head to grab myself another drink, now. See you later, Arthur.”

  
  


The prince seemed entirely oblivious, waving happily as she shot one last dirty look at Merlin before turning on one sky-high heel.  _Who wears heels to a pool party anyway?_ Merlin couldn't help thinking, somewhat uncharitably since a fairly large proportion of their class was doing so.

  
  


“She was flirting with you,” he couldn't help blurting out, as Arthur turned back to face him.

  
  


His boyfriend seemed genuinely surprised. “What – Soph – really? No, surely not.”

  
  


“She's still shooting me dirty looks,” said Merlin, looking over Arthur's shoulder.

  
  


The prince glanced backward, and this time Sophia wasn't quite fast enough to hide her glare. “Oh.”

  
  


“Yeah.”

  
  


“Well,” said Arthur, smile turning slightly more predatory. “Shall we show her just how taken I am, then?”

  
  


Merlin rubbed his hand along the shell of his ear nervously. “In front of everyone, here? I mean, I think most people know after Heartgrove, but we've never really – it's our classmates –”

  
  


Arthur cocked an eyebrow, challenging as ever. “I'm not ashamed. Are you?”

  
  


“Of course not.”

  
  


And with that, Arthur was kissing him soundly, arms tight around his boyfriend, holding him close. Merlin tangled one hand in the prince's hair, thinking that there was absolutely nowhere else that he'd rather be for the rest of his life.

  
  


Arthur pulled back slightly, ignoring the whoops and cheers from their tipsy classmates. “I think that's enough of a show for one day, don't you? How would you feel about heading inside for a bit? I've got a rather fantastic bed upstairs, you know.”

  
  


Merlin grinned. Yes, he absolutely did know, and had very fond memories of said bed. And maybe there was one place in the world he'd rather be right now than down by the pool.

  
  


“Lead on, Your Highness,” he said.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

 

Part I

 

It was only a two hour flight from London Stansted to Camelot Pendragon airport, but it left Merlin shattered nonetheless. He'd always liked travelling alone – there was something faintly relaxing about sitting and reading his book by himself, without his mother dragging him around Duty Free to buy perfume, or Will deciding that they should see how loudly they could talk about bombs without getting arrested. But still, the three hour delay on the flight had been a bit wearing, and he was glad to be back home. Though, since when had Albion, not Britain, been _home?_

 

He felt his heart lift when he rounded the corner to arrivals, and saw a familiar blond in oversized sunglasses, flanked by two enormous Knights, waiting. _Ah. Since then._

 

Feeling rather like something out of the end of _Love Actually_ , Merlin raced forward and threw his arms around his boyfriend. A month away had felt very long, and Skype just wasn't the same.

 

“Hey,” said Arthur smiling, and kissed him.

 

“Hey.” Merlin grinned, feeling fit to burst. He supressed that ridiculousness though, mock-pouting at Arthur. “You do realise that the sunglasses do absolutely zero for disguising yourself? Your family _owns the bloody airport_.” He pulled them off petulantly; they'd awkwardly whacked him in the head during the kiss.

 

Arthur smirked at him, completely ignoring the stares and whispers surrounding them. “Actually, I think you'll find that my family owns the _country_ and everything in it, including the airport. And by extension, the people in the airport.” He raised an eyebrow, looking impossibly smug.

 

“Pfft,” said Merlin. “I'm a British Citizen. We've got our own queen, remember?”

 

“Don't let that fool you.” Arthur grinned. “You're totally mine.”

 

And much as Merlin spent the whole limo ride home denying it, that was very much true.

 

*-*-*

 

Of course, Merlin's stint on cloud nine lasted only as long as it took for them to take a left instead of a right outside the airport, heading for the city centre rather than the Embassy as they'd agreed.

 

Arthur's face had suddenly gone rather slack, and Merlin took in the expression with a sigh. “I'm not going to like this, am I?”

 

The prince fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. “Um, so, you know how there's that moratorium on the press about printing on me ‘til my eighteenth? And how that's sort of meant that we can wander around freely and I could come get you today and all that?”

 

“Ye-es?”

 

“The rules don't really apply outside Albion – Father's been putting on pressure, using his contacts with the Murdochs and other newspaper empires and stuff to squash anything that comes up, but-”

 

Merlin sighed. He had spent the last month in Britain, and did, occasionally, listen to news broadcasts, however much Arthur might tease him about being hopelessly out of touch. The scandal over illegal phone hacking at News Corporation, the enormous international conglomerate of television stations and newspapers which was owned by the Murdoch family, was still breaking, seeming to get more murky every week. “But now the Murdochs are in trouble and need something to distract the media?”

 

Arthur sighed. “Yeah. They're running a front page about us tomorrow, in _The Times_ and some other papers. Father's livid, but News Corp only has one TV station in Albion, so they're not too worried about his wrath.”

 

“So what do we do?”

 

“Well, they're also running it in _The Sun -_ ” Merlin put his hands over his eyes, trying not to think about what the headlines were going to be.

 

Arthur continued, patting him on the back in sympathy. “So we're sort of doing an in depth interview with journalists from some of their competitors, to take the sting out of whatever they say. We’ve got people from _The Camelot Herald_ and _The_ _Guardian_ this afternoon, and then some questions at a press conference with a few other papers, none of them belonging to News Corp. Um, sorry?”

 

“How many's 'a few'?”

 

“Um. Forty six?”

 

Merlin scowled at him. “Do I not get any say in this?”

 

Arthur grimaced. “I'm so sorry, I know it’s terribly late notice. It's just, Father put out the press release this morning, naming you as my official partner. He wanted to pre-empt Rupert Murdoch, which means we have to say something. Otherwise it'll be completely out of our control. The emergency Council meeting to ratify it is tomorrow-”

 

“Ratify what?”

 

“You have to meet the Council so that it can officially approve you as a partner. Don't worry, it's just a formality; they'd never dare to defy Father.”

 

Merlin rubbed his fingers against his temples. “Let me get this straight. As of this morning, I'm officially like your consort or whatever, the whole fucking world is going to know it by tomorrow morning, and I have to spend this afternoon – which I was looking forward to spending watching crappy action films with my boyfriend because I've been up since _four bloody am_ to get that flight – being bombarded with questions by nosy journalists from two different countries?”

 

Arthur winced. “Yes? Well, except that it's actually three countries, the Americans wanted in, and you're not actually my consort yet, we'll have to be married for that-”

 

“And nobody thought to _ask_ me about any of this?”

 

Arthur grimaced. “By the time we all found out about it, you were already in the airport and your phone was off. It's not like we're getting married or anything, just – well, you're now officially my plus one to all royal events.  You're not breaking up with me because you don't want this, right?”

 

Merlin sighed, stomach clenching at the very thought. “I'm not breaking up with you – but are you seriously trying to run with the fact that the _King of freaking Albion_ couldn't get a message to me because my phone was off?”

 

“I didn't want to worry you?”

 

Trying to take deep breaths, Merlin sat up straighter in his chair. “Okay. Right. You owe me big time, I hope you realise. What the fuck are we telling these journalists?”

 

*-*-*

 

_Teenage girls' hearts all over the world have broken this summer, after the announcement today that not only is sixteen-year-old Prince Arthur Pendragon gay, he's also very much attached to his boyfriend of five months, Merlin Emrys. Below is the full transcript of the UK exclusive interview I had with them last week, just before they returned to their studies at Albion International School for Year Eleven._

 

Tom Maidstone: I'm sure female hearts are breaking all over the world right now. Mr. Emrys, how does it feel to have bagged the world's most eligible bachelor?

 

Merlin Emrys: Um... please call me Merlin. And I wouldn't say I've bagged him, exactly. We're just dating. It's not like we're getting married.

 

TM: So you're saying it's not serious?

 

ME: *looking flustered* No, no, I didn't say that, not at all, but we're fifteen, for heaven's sake!

 

Arthur: What I think Merlin's trying to say is that he's absolutely overjoyed to be dating me, and considers himself the world's luckiest person.

 

ME: Yes, that's right... wait, what? Oh, you smug *inaudible comment*

 

_I can clearly see from their interactions that this is not the run of the mill fairytale of prince meets peasant._

 

TM: So, how did you meet?

 

Arthur: We were in the same class at school, Albion International, in Year Nine. Merlin had just moved to Albion from England with his mother, Ambassador Hunith Emrys.

 

ME: I corrected him. I'm not sure anyone had ever done that before.

 

Arthur: Honestly, Merlin. Don't be ridiculous.

 

ME: What? It's the truth!

 

TM: Yes, so your mother is the British Ambassador to Albion. How does she feel about your relationship?

 

ME: Oh, she laughed and told me she'd been expecting it since we danced together at the Welcoming Ball, the first week we'd arrived in Albion.

 

TM: Was that when you first realised you liked Arthur?

 

ME: Oh, gods no. That was just Morgana.

 

Arthur: Ahem. He means that it was simply a symbolic dance in order to show the world how tolerant and open a society we have here in Albion. Of course, gay and lesbian marriage has never been outlawed here, and there are no rules against it in the Old Ways.

 

TM: Are you considering marriage already, then?

 

_Both boys turned extremely red at this point._

 

Arthur: I'm sixteen years old, Mr. Maidstone. Could we move back to the agreed-upon interview topics?

 

TM: Very well. Were you worried, Arthur, about how Hunith would feel about her son dating a prince?

 

Arthur: Hunith's lovely, a wonderful ambassador for Britain. I had been a bit nervous about her reaction, but she just smiled at me and baked us some biscuits.

 

TM: And how did your father feel about it?

 

Arthur: I'd told him I was gay when I was thirteen, before I'd even met Merlin. He's absolutely fine with it. Albion is a very progressive nation. I think he was just happy that I'd found someone.

 

TM: And how did you feel, Merlin, meeting King Uther?

 

ME: Well, obviously, I've met him before at Embassy events and the like, but I was still slightly intimidated at meeting him once more as his son's boyfriend. His Majesty was very kind, though, and very friendly, inviting me to join them for a family dinner.

 

_What with King Uther's reputation suggesting that he is anything but 'friendly', this surprised me, but he has certainly made no outward objection to the match, going so far as to call a council meeting to ratify his decision to name Merlin Emrys his son's official partner. In very traditional Albion, this is an important step, allowing Mr. Emrys to attend events as part of the royal party, and is tantamount to a declaration that an engagement is on the cards, whatever the prince and his partner might suggest._

 

_Since the prince is only sixteen, and Mr. Emrys only fifteen, this seems to be a rather premature decision to those of us from other countries, but in Albion, which has often been seen as a rather conservative and old-fashioned country, the age of consent is only fourteen, and such early partnerships are common. King Uther himself had his late wife Ygraine declared his partner when they were only fourteen, and were married at the age of twenty, twelve years before her premature death during childbirth after bearing the royal twins, Arthur and Morgana, separated in age by only twenty minutes._

 

TM: So, how do you feel about King Uther's decision not to donate to the various LGBT friendly organisations worldwide that have requested funding from Albion's very full treasury? He said that, and I quote, “though Albion is entirely supportive of people of diverse sexual and gender orientations, we believe that each country must work for themselves in deciding their policies, and thus will not interfere.” Given that people in, for example, Uganda, are being beheaded for homosexuality, and in light of your own coming out, do you believe this is the correct stance to take?

 

Arthur: I absolutely do not in any way condone repression of sexuality. I have donated my own personal funds to many of those organisations, as has my sister Morgana, who is patron of several UN charities and commissions. I cannot and will not comment on my father's use of treasury funds, which are nothing to do with me; he's the King, I'm not.

 

TM: If you were, would you have done things differently? _Will_ you do things differently when the time comes?

 

Arthur: No comment. Can we return to the actual subject of the interview now, please?

 

 _The prince looks exceptionally uncomfortable, and Emrys is fidgeting._ _One gets the impression that they both completely oppose Uther's policies, but are unwilling to openly speak out against him. Perhaps, given the absolute power the monarchy still holds in Albion, that is wise. However, Princess Morgana -_

 

CONTINUED ON PAGE 6

 

*-*-*

 

Arthur put down the paper with a sigh. “Father is going to make sure that Tom Maidstone is banished from Albion forever for that article.”

 

Merlin looked up from his book, marking his page with a finger. “Really? Why? I thought he was all right, for a journalist. Definitely better than that weirdo from the _News of the World_ that came later.”

 

“He basically insinuated that the partnership is tantamount to an engagement, which is bad enough because it makes Albion sound like a haven of child abuse, and then flat out accused me of disagreeing with Father's policy. Maybe the first would have been let fly, but never the second, particularly because he goes on and on about how fantastic Morgana is, and only stops just short of calling me a spineless idiot for not openly opposing Father too.”

 

Merlin frowned. “Well, you're not a spineless idiot, but you do disagree with Uther, don't you?”

 

“Yes, but I can't say so. He's the king, and in Albion that means that until he dies, he is the ruler of the realm, and he's in charge. No questions. And he's done fairly well by the realm – we're richer and more powerful than any other country in Europe. Sure, I disagree with him on a few things, but I am not going to oppose my king outright.”

 

“But surely that's what stops Albion being a dictatorship, that dissent can exist?”

 

“It does; that's what the Council is for. Eleven elected politicians, one from each region, who ratify and agree upon Father's every decision. You'll meet them this evening.”

 

His boyfriend shifted in his seat a little. “I suppose this partnership thing could look a bit like an engagement to someone outside Albion.”

 

Arthur reddened. “It’s just - I mean, I know Hunith’s term is coming to an end so you're probably leaving to go back to the UK at the end of this school year. And I know it would be difficult if we lived in different countries, it was bad enough this summer! But, well, I just wanted to do something to show you that I'm serious, even if we've only got one more year.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, you know.”

 

Merlin sat up straight from where he was sprawled on a cushion on the floor. Arthur had never said that before. Well, except in his strange declaration at Heartgrove on that school trip where they'd first started going out. Merlin hadn't wanted to risk it either, feeling that he'd panic and run away screaming if he put labels on the feeling which coursed through his veins every time he looked at Arthur. But now it just felt right, like coming home. “I love you too, you great prat.”

 

Arthur smiled, and Merlin kissed him. There was no other option, really.

 

*-*-*

 

“Merlin Andrew Emrys, born on the 29th January 1996. Mother Hunith Emily Emrys, Ambassador to Albion from Britain. Father unknown. Born in Britain, moved to Rome, Italy at the age of eight. Returned to Britain after living there for three and a half years, before coming to Albion at the age of thirteen.”

 

Merlin shuffled, playing with his cuffs. Did the guy really have to read out his entire personal history? He was half expecting to hear what he'd had for breakfast this morning, set out in that dark, harsh voice along with the rest of his life story. Despite the fact that Arthur had spent the whole of yesterday evening reassuring him that this Council meeting was no more than a formality, it felt a lot more intimidating than that now he was actually in it. He was standing in the centre of a horseshoe-shaped table. In the seats around him, thirteen faces sat, blankly staring.

 

King Uther sat in a throne-like chair at the centre of the horseshoe, with the representatives of each area seated around him. Each had a small placard in front of them, on which was engraved the name of the province which they represented. Prime Minister Morgause sat to the King's left, and the representative from Mercia, Mordor Bayard, who also doubled as Treasury Minister, sat to his right. Other than Morgause, not one of the Council members appeared to be under the age of fifty. The PM's golden hair and bright red jacket stood out starkly in the sea of grey suits around her, but she seemed perfectly at ease, the peacock in a flock of pigeons. But even her bright colours could not overpower the sheer aura of power coming off the King in waves.

 

“How long have you two been together?” Bayard's expression was nasty.

 

Merlin answered shakily. The man's tone was enough to make him forget his own name – why on Earth did he have to go through questions which they all had the answers to in the dossiers in front of them anyway? “Since March this year.”

 

“And do you see yourselves remaining together further?”

 

“Yes,” answered Arthur, rather too loudly for the room. He was standing next to Merlin in a stiff-backed pose just a little too perfect to be comfortable. The prince squeezed his boyfriend's hand in moral support and murmured, “Don't worry, it's just a power play,” in his ear.

 

“Mr. Emrys.” Morgause took over the questioning silkily. “Your mother's posting ends next year, correct?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you think that will mean for your relationship?”

 

Merlin felt Arthur tense next to him, and had the feeling that if the Prince had been in any position to yell at the Prime Minister, he would be doing so.

 

Merlin took a deep breath. “I think that we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

 

Arthur exhaled.

 

The representative from Elmet, a southern region known mainly for its beaches and tourism, raised a hand. He was a scrawny man, with hair the colour of straw and glasses which were too big for his face. “There is the matter of the royal succession. If Prince Arthur is in partnership with a person of male gender, and this eventually leads to marriage, there will be no legitimate heirs of the Pendragon bloodline to inherit.”

 

Merlin thought that the matching cold stares which the man got from both the King and his son would, if looks could kill, have left him in a heap on the lacquered parquet.

 

“I'm sorry that you feel that my choice of partner is not acceptable to you,” said Arthur, voice like ice. “I'm afraid that my sexuality is not under discussion. I first realised that I was attracted to men when I was twelve years old, and have absolutely no desire to date a woman, let alone marry one. So if it's not Merlin, because please let me remind you that I'm sixteen years old and have absolutely no intention of getting married any time soon, it will be another 'person of male gender' as you so delicately put it. And my partner and I may well choose to use surrogacy as a method of having children 'of Pendragon bloodline'. Of course, in case you've forgotten, I also have a twin sister, whose children will have as much right to the throne as any of mine. I refuse to compromise my principles and marry anyone for political expediency, so if that means that I have to abdicate in favour of my sister, so be it.”

 

A silence followed this pronouncement. Uther looked positively murderous, Morgause looked strangely delighted, and the Elmetian representative appeared to have melted into a puddle on his chair.

 

A woman with long iron-grey hair tied into a tight bun, whose placard indicated that she represented Brega, shuffled some papers. “I believe we can go to the vote. The minimum requirements for partnership have been met. His background checks out. There is no technical objection to be made.”

 

All eyes turned to Uther. “All those in favour?” he asked, expressionless as usual. Merlin tried to think whether he'd ever seen the man display any emotion other than anger, but couldn't think of any.

 

Every single person at the table raised their hand, even the Elmetian, who was clearly shaking.

 

“And those against?” If Uther were one to display any emotion, the expression on his face could have been described as 'faintly smug'.

 

Another silence.

 

“Congratulations, Merlin Emrys,” said Uther drily. “You are now officially Arthur's partner, and as such receive all the privileges of a member of Albion's royal family. This is not a contract, and I remind you that the privileges and status can be withdrawn at any time, at the discretion of Prince Arthur, myself or this Council.”

 

Merlin hadn't heard any of the speech beyond the 'congratulations'. Frankly, he was just glad that the council meeting was over. His head was still ringing – did Arthur just suggest he'd give up the throne for him?

 

*-*-*

 

They hadn't talked about the council meeting, not yet. Instead, they spent the limo ride home very carefully talking about which teachers they hoped to get next year, and when they arrived back at the palace went straight to watching _RED_ on Arthur's obscenely large television. Catrina, having ascertained that they were using the plastic bowl for the popcorn, rather than her precious cut glass crystal, had thankfully left them alone from her panicky fussing for once.

 

“So,” said Merlin finally, as they watched Helen Mirren shooting people. “I guess it could have been worse.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Did you seriously threaten to abdicate?”

 

Merlin felt Arthur shift behind him. “No, I said they'd have to accept I was gay.”

 

He paused.

 

“Actually, I did threaten to abdicate if they wouldn't, didn't I?”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Father's going to kill me, isn't he?”

 

Merlin laughed weakly. “Let's just say that as soon as he gets home, I'm out of here! I love you, but this one's all yours.”

 

“You'll probably hear it across the road anyway; I've got a feeling that this is going to be loud.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“It's not like Morgana wouldn't make a better Queen anyway! She cares about this stuff. Politics. I don't. I just want to play tennis. Only random luck and twenty minutes means that I inherit rather than her. If only we'd been born the other way round!”

 

Merlin turned around until he was straddling Arthur's lap. “Don't you dare say that, Arthur Pendragon! You're going to be a fantastic King, I really believe that. You could do anything you set your mind to, but this is what you were born for. Your _destiny_ , as Dr. K would say.”

 

Arthur looked tired. “I know. Look, I'm just a bit.... whatever... at the moment. That Council put me in a terrible mood. Fangorn, that Representative from Elmet, was so damn homophobic it makes me sick.”

 

“I was so proud of you when you spoke up, you know. I thought he was going to spontaneously combust, he looked so terrified by the combined Pendragon glare.”

 

The prince scoffed. “He's new – only voted in last month. I'll be surprised if he lasts a full term, to he honest. Father may be conservative in many ways, but he's known about my sexuality for years and to be fair, that's the one thing he's never objected to about my life. My mother was bisexual, so I suppose that explains a lot.”

 

Merlin started. “I never knew that!”

 

“No, it's not widely advertised. But it's pretty much an open secret. In fact, you know Ms. Nimueh?”

 

“Our teacher last year?”

 

“Yep. She dated my mum for a bit, until Mum left her for Father. He and Ms. Nimueh have hated each other ever since.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“Yeah. I mean, obviously I never knew my mother, but it's amazing how much you can learn by going through newspaper archives.”

 

“It must be nice, at least being able to know about your mother. I don't know anything about my dad.”

 

“I don't know. In a way it makes me miss her more – there's been so much written about her, everyone seems to have known her except me and Morgana.”

 

“I get that. But I mean, I don't even know my dad's name. I was an IVF baby; she wanted a child even though she didn't have a relationship, so it's always been just the two of us. And her work, of course. Always the work. I mean, I know she loves me, just sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if we were a normal family.”

 

“Pah,” Arthur mock-spat. “You're talking to a prince, remember! I don't think either of us would know normal if it hit us on the head with a spatula. Maybe that's why we get along; we're both a little bit messed up.”

 

_*-*-*_

  
  


_This day had been a long time coming, Merlin thought as he raced up the stairs, late as usual, to the king's audience chamber at the top. It had been months and months of arguments with councillors and advisors, months of frustrating arguments late at night between Arthur and Merlin, trying to hash out the parameters of the new laws._

  
  


_New laws which would finally lift the ban on magic, so that Merlin could be free. And Camelot could finally be a country of magic once more._

  
  


_He slipped into his customary position at the back of the room, behind the throne. For all that he was far closer, in every way including the literal, to Arthur than any other advisor, he was still just a manservant, mainly placed there to be around when the king needed his goblet refilled._

  
  


_And Merlin was happy there. As a manservant, nobody noticed him, and that was the way he preferred it. He'd rather stay hidden, keeping watch in the shadows, than have all the focus of the court on him. As long as Arthur was listening to his opinions, the rest of the world didn't really matter._

  
  


_The king caught his eye as Merlin entered the room. He raised his hands in the air and the room quieted, petitioners and couriers alike turning to face Arthur to hear what he had to say._

  
  


_Merlin grinned all the way through the speech he had helped write, and when he finally heard the words he'd been awaiting for nearly ten years, couldn't help it that his eyes flashed golden and a shower of stars swirled around the king, dancing through the golden strands of his hair._

  
  


_Arthur laughed aloud._

  
  


“ _That brings me to my second announcement of the morning,” he said. Merlin stiffened._ Second? _He thought they'd agreed that turning over the country's entire stance on magic was enough of a change for one morning. Apparently the king had other plans._

  
  


“ _I would like to announce a new appointment to my court,” Arthur declaimed. “As magic is now legal, we shall need a Court Sorcerer to be the figurehead for magic in this land, in charge of ensuring that my laws are kept, but primarily for the protection of Camelot and all its people from any threats of magical origin. I declare that this position shall be given to Merlin, my most loyal servant.”_

_Merlin's heart seemed to be both lighter than a cloud and heavier than Arthur's sword, all at once. Light, because Arthur was finally, finally recognising him for what he was, his protector. Heavy, because that sounded like rather a lot of work. Though, to be fair, it wasn't anything much more than he was already doing._

  
  


_Arthur motioned for Merlin to step forward. He embraced him formally._

  
  


_No one else heard the slight whisper in the warlock's ear. “Not to worry, love. There will be a uniform. Including a hat.”_

  
  


_If Merlin's grin as he was greeted by members of the court was slightly strained, everyone was polite enough not to mention it._

  
  


_From the bowels of the castle, the sound of a dragon's laughter echoed down the centuries._

  
  


Fifteen hundred years later, Merlin Emrys rolled over in his sleep, murmuring “Arthur.” Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he had only vague impressions of stars twirling through golden hair when he woke up in the morning.

  
  


*-*-*

 

“Are you sure about this?” Merlin shuffled slightly in his light grey suit. “I mean, this is like, a ridiculously important religious event or something, isn't it?”

 

Arthur kissed him lightly on the nose before straightening his tie. “Well, it's not like I'm personally particularly devout, but this is the one event of the year the whole royal family has to go to. And as my official partner, you're properly royalty now! Besides, we just have to stand there for a couple of hours and then say ‘So mote it be’ at the end.”

 

Merlin sighed. “I know, I know.”

 

Arthur grinned. “Come on, it's moral support for me. Besides, it's always funny to watch the priestess spill wine everywhere while trying not to get it on her posh white dress. And of course, it means we get to head back to the place we first got together.”

 

His partner snorted. “Yes, because only you would proposition another boy at the centre of the state religion, a sacred place meant to be dedicated to purity. For the future head of said religion, you're a little ridiculous, you know that?”

 

The prince's grin was entirely unrepentant. “Hey, it worked, didn't it?”

 

 

*-*-*

 

It was meant to be a balmy summer night. It very much was not. A thunderstorm could clearly be heard in the distance, and the rain poured down around them as they stood in concentric circles in the Heartgrove. Merlin shivered as he hunched between Arthur and Morgana in the front row of the Midsummer ceremony. _Hurry up and start!_ he thought impatiently, longing to be back in his nice warm bed with his boyfriend. He tried to look stoic, for the sake of the cameraman panning around the grove, broadcasting live to the whole of Albion.

 

Finally, just when Merlin was starting to think that he was going to freeze to death before anything happened, the priestess appeared, walking gracefully up to the altar cut in to the huge tree in the centre of the clearing. She shielded the chalice she carried with one hand and was apparently undaunted by the ridiculous amount of rain dripping down her face. She wore a long white dress, which might have been designed to be floating around her but instead was clinging, making her look like a drowned bride on Halloween, particularly as her long brown hair fell in sodden curtains around her face.

 

Merlin drew in a sudden breath, and elbowed Arthur. “Why the hell is the high priestess _Ms. Nimueh_?”

 

Uther glared at them, so it was Morgana who answered in a low undertone: “It's tradition; any ordained priestess can conduct the ritual – they draw lots each year, right before the ceremony. Bet Father's not happy it's _her_ , though! She went off and became all religious after Mother left her.”

 

The king turned to glare once more, so they subsided. The silence in the grove was broken only by the steady drip of the rain and the occasional crack of lightning or rumble of thunder.

 

Nimueh raised her voice to speak above the noise.

 

“Fellow Druids, we are gathered here today to celebrate the longest day of the year, and to commemorate the changing of the year from Light to Dark. We ask the blessing of the Old Gods on this night, and beg them to return their magic to the land so that it may be used to do Their bidding.”

 

She raised the chalice high above her.

 

“Bless this, the wine which is the blood of the people of Albion, people of magic!”

 

Arthur nudged Merlin lightly. Merlin grinned – watching Nimueh cover herself in wine when she spilled it on the altar would surely be some small payback for the years being tortured in her classes. He quickly straightened his face though – it would be terrible to have the Prince's boyfriend and official partner grinning broadly at a serious ceremony on national television.

 

But then, the priestess went very much off script. Rather than spill the wine, she lowered the chalice to the table. There were murmurs from all around the clearing, but no one interrupted: it was very bad luck to disturb a ritual once it had begun.

 

Nimueh raised her head and looked straight at the royal family.

 

“There is a prophecy,” she said. “The prophecy that magic shall return to the land when Bright and Dark are matched, and the One shall sacrifice himself for the kingdom to bring the magic home. We now have a bright prince and a dark princess, born twins and matched through life.” Arthur and Morgana exchanged glances, somewhat confused.

 

Nimueh's eyes almost seemed to glow red, as she pointed at them. “I have seen, and I know that tonight the magic shall return to Albion! The sacrifice must be made!”

 

A knife suddenly appeared in Nimueh’s hand. Without leaving time for anyone to react, she threw it straight at Arthur.

 

Merlin felt the world seem to slow. He saw the knife curve upwards in a terrible, precise arc, before arching downwards, closer and closer to Arthur. Blurrily, he saw the prince frozen in place, wide eyed. Knights were racing towards them, but they were all so far away, too far…

 

The only thing that Merlin could think was “NO.” Without even being conscious of his movement, Merlin felt himself turn towards Arthur and step in front of him. He raised a hand as if to catch the knife – the world flashed white –

 

*-*-*

 

Arthur stared in horror as Nimueh seemed to go mad and produced a knife, seemingly from nowhere. It flew straight at him, but suddenly Merlin was there in front of him. Merlin raised a hand. A bolt of lightning spilt open the sky. Somehow, it missed the Hearttree entirely and hit Nimueh, who fell to the ground. She was deathly pale as she lay sprawled against the dark earth of the Heartgrove.

 

Arthur blinked, shellshocked. He returned to Earth with a jolt a moment later when he realised that Merlin had collapsed in a pile in front of him. He sank to his knees, desperately pulling his boyfriend’s head into his lap.

 

“No, no, Merlin, love, no,” he said, pushing away the Knights who were trying to move him. “Fuck off and get me an ambulance!”

 

He only registered his surroundings very vaguely, entirely focused on trying to use his hands to stem the dark stain that was spreading along Merlin’s shoulder.

 

He heard his father calling his name, but it seemed to be from a great distance. None of that mattered, only Merlin.

 

*-*-*

 

A few hours later, once Merlin had been declared out of danger, and Nimueh declared dead, the prince watched the video which had been recorded by the TV crews present. Arthur had been sent home from the hospital to change clothes and rest, but there was no way he could sleep until he saw Merlin, and he needed to know what had happened in Heartgrove. He couldn’t trust his own recollection, and the world seemed to have run mad in only a few hours.

 

Arthur winced as he saw Merlin collapse, saw the devastation in his own eyes as he fell to his knees. He had to fast forward a few minutes then, because some things he didn’t want to re-live. Ever.

 

When he pressed play again, he and Merlin were being hustled into the ambulance. Uther seemed to be saying something to Arthur as he helped him climb in, but the prince had no recollection now of what it might have been. He just remembered being focused on keeping hold of Merlin’s hand.

 

Abruptly, the camera swung away from the ambulance as the cameraman was distracted by something else. Arthur caught sight of the crowd of faces looking terrified and hysterical, some screaming, some fainting, some running around in circles, desperate to escape. The Knights weren’t letting anyone leave, however, trying to contain the situation until they could figure out what was going on.

 

Then the camera focused in on Morgana. She walked forwards like a person possessed, completely ignoring the bodyguards and fuss around her. Wherever she stepped, the crowd seemed to still a little, gazing at her in fear or awe, Arthur couldn’t tell. Uther was in view of the camera too, looking more bewildered than Arthur had ever seen. His skin was grey-tinged, and he seemed on the verge of collapse, but he waved away the paramedics desperately trying to approach him, instead gesturing something at the Knights who had huddled around him.

 

When Morgana reached the Hearttree, she looked down at Nimueh in a heap on the floor before her, and was absolutely expressionless as she stepped over the fallen priestess and climbed onto the altar, kicking over the chalice as she did so. The wine spilled on the sodden ground, the rain causing it to run in rivulets across the clearing.

 

“Silence!” rang her commanding voice, and even Uther obeyed, though his jaw was working as though if he'd had any choice he would be shouting. Arthur, watching the video, shivered. The silence, even second hand, was eerie.

 

She closed her eyes. “I have seen!” she called.

 

“What the hell is she doing?” muttered someone in the crowd. There was no response.

 

“I have seen,” repeated the princess. “Tonight, magic has returned to Albion!”

 

Morgana raised one trembling hand, and pointed at where the ambulance was driving away. “Emrys, reincarnation of Merlin the Great Sorcerer, has saved Prince Arthur using magic! How else could he have moved that fast?”

 

There were murmurs all around the clearing. Arthur watched the crowd moving slowly towards Morgana, as though actually considering what she was saying, though no one raised their voice loud enough above the soft murmur to agree.

 

Morgana looked around at the people in the clearing, most of whom were clearly still shell-shocked. “But really, the magic never went away, my fellow Druids. Magic has evolved even as our society has evolved! The gods have spoken to me in dreams. I have seen this.

 

“We know that the Bright magic of the past was golden as my brother's hair. We know the Dark magic of the past was black as mine. Albion is a land built on shining gold and night-black oil. Tonight, the Nimueh was sacrificed to the gods, as prophecy demanded! The lightning which struck her was a sign from them, a sign that we have not been using the magic to its fullest potential.”

 

Morgana's Pendragon-blue eyes seemed to be flashing brighter than a thousand suns. Arthur felt himself almost consider that she might be right.

 

“Nimueh's sacrifice was a sign from the Gods that the magic is here, and we need only to use it! The Gods have spoken to me, and I relay their words to you!”

 

She looked straight at the cameraman, who was now wholly focused on her. Then, Morgana's eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed backwards off the altar in a dead faint.

 

When the video finished, Arthur stared for a long time at the black, blank television screen.

 

*-*-*

 

 

“We're going,” said Merlin from his hospital bed. “It's been confirmed, Mum's been recalled to London. She doesn’t even want to let me finish the school year, even though there’s only a couple of weeks left. She worries.”

 

Arthur felt his heart break just a little at the completely expected news. He faked a scoff. “You were _stabbed_ , Merlin! Of course she worries! Hell, I worry!”

 

Merlin smiled wanly. “I know you do.” He paused, looking as though the world was going to end. “But-”

 

Arthur tried to look strong and manly. He wasn't sure it was working. “You're breaking up with me, aren't you?”

 

“I'm sorry! But I'm going to be home for the next two years, we'll both be so busy, me with A Levels, you with Concs. Then there's uni, you'll stay here, I'll be somewhere in the UK, and you have a life here, you're bloody _Prince Arthur_. That means that you've got responsibilities. You won't have time or energy for a long distance relationship. We both know that probably won't work anyway. You'll be the head of the country one day, you need someone better than me to be helping you.”

 

Arthur glared, fighting back the tears which threatened to spill from his eyes. “I don't want anyone else.”

 

Merlin rubbed his face with his hands, looking so world-weary that Arthur’s heart broke all over again. “I'm sorry Arthur. But this isn't going to work.”

 

The prince closed his eyes and willed himself to accept the inevitable. It didn’t really work, but he forced out: “Maybe you’re safer without me anyway. I got you stabbed.”

 

Merlin shook his head mutely, a few tears trailing down his face.

 

They sat together by that hospital bed for hours, holding hands for the last time.

 

*-*-*

 

Arthur was sitting at one of the big bay windows in the lounge, doing anything but thinking of the aeroplane which even now would be leaving from Camelot Pendragon and taking Merlin away from Albion forever.

 

It was there that Morgana, fresh from the latest round of press conferences and interviews and photoshoots that seemed to have taken over her life in the last two weeks, found him.

 

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked softly, standing a few feet away, expression cautious as though she was approaching a small wounded animal. Not a bad description of his current state, Arthur mused grimly.

 

“Tell me,” he said, not turning round. “Do you actually believe any of the rubbish you're spouting?”

 

He could see Morgana's spine straighten from the corner of his eye. She had her official face on now.

 

“Of course, I was gifted a vision of what Albion could and should become -”

 

“Oh, shut up. You're talking to me, your twin brother, not one of those twits from the papers. You and I both know there was no vision.”

 

She sighed, and came forward to join him in the window, tucking her knees under her chin. “All right. No vision.”

 

Arthur said nothing. He knew his sister rather well. When the silence became too much for her, she burst out with: “But I had to do _something_ , Arthur! Father doesn't listen to me, but attendance at the rituals of the Old Ways has been going down year on year for the last decade. And the Old Ways is the only thing that legitimises Albion's monarchy in the eyes of the world and the Albish people. How long do you think Father could have kept being so authoritarian, if a charismatic enough leader had started agitating for a proper democracy?”

 

“That's not why you did it.”

 

“No.”

 

“Strange, isn't it, how somehow your visions have shown that the way forward for Albion is exactly what you've been advocating for the last few years, a complete reversal of international policy.”

 

She was equanimical in her reply. “Look, Arthur. I had to get Father to listen to me. And the lightning hitting just then was too good an opportunity to pass up. He can't ignore me when I've got the press, the whole national religion, and a large proportion of the populace on my side. I saw an opening, and I took it. I won't apologise for that.”

 

“And what about Merlin? He could have been dying – nearly was! It was only luck which made the knife go into his leg rather than anywhere vital. You didn't even look at him to check, just went straight for your political opening!” This, more than anything, was what made Arthur's heart clench in bitterness and anger.

 

“Maybe it was the magic, not luck.” She must have seen the expression on her brother’s face, because rather than continue on that tack she said hurriedly: “You were with him, an ambulance was called – what could I have done? I wouldn't have been of any use.”

 

“Moral support?”

 

Morgana shut her eyes. “I thought you had it covered. I couldn't let that opportunity go.”

 

Arthur laughed despairingly. “And that, Morgana, is why you'd make a much better ruler than I will. I will always, _always_ put the people I love first, before the country and its politics.”

 

Her mouth twisted into a thin, bitter line. “But you were born twenty minutes earlier, so we’ll never find out how good a ruler I could be.”

 

The prince stared out of the window, watching a solitary bird cross the grey sky. “I can't do anything while Father's King. You've scared him enough already. If I abdicated I think he'd have a heart attack. But afterwards – well. I think we both know which one of us actually wants to rule the country.”

 

 

_Six and a half years later..._

 

Why doing a PhD meant that he had to mark homework for idiotic first years just starting their physics careers, Merlin would never understand. Well, he did really – it put him in his Professors' good graces and was a little extra income to supplement the loan. But on days like this when he was desperately trying to figure out the chicken-scratch handwriting of a student who clearly had not the faintest idea of what Newton's Laws of Motion _were_ , let alone how to use them, he wondered whether he should just have accepted one of the many offers of banking jobs which he'd been sent when he finished his Masters.

 

Instead, he'd decided to stay in Cardiff, as though four years of undergraduate and masters study hadn't been enough. But he liked the people, the city was big enough for his tastes, and there was the advantage that he could house-share with his childhood best friend Will, who was working at one of the big industrial factories on the outskirts of the town. And he knew and got along with the physics and maths professors, having met many of them over the course of his joint degree.

 

Radio 4 was on for background noise. Merlin hadn't really been paying attention, too engrossed in the problem sheet in front of him, but his head snapped up when he heard a familiar name.

 

“... _funeral of King Uther Pendragon of Albion, aged 52.”_

 

It wasn't often that Merlin thought about his time in Albion these days. It all seemed something like an idyllic dream, though on cold nights the scar on his leg twinged a little, and he remembered that terrible midsummer night all too well. He still sent Gwen and Elena the occasional Facebook message and commented on Gwaine's ridiculous photographs, but he'd more or less lost contact with his other friends. Morgana hadn't really spoken to him after the Midsummer ritual, too busy spreading the word that the magic was back. Merlin really wasn't sure what to think about all that, so he didn't. At least his strange dreams had stopped since coming back to Britain; his doctor thought it was probably the trauma.

 

At first, he'd kept up emailing Arthur, but gradually the emails had become fewer and shorter. Arthur and Morgana didn't have Facebook because of privacy concerns, so they'd slipped further and further out of touch. Funny, when he'd left Albion aged sixteen, he'd never have imagined that that might have happened. Then, he’d felt that a life without Arthur would be unliveable.

 

Of course, that hadn't turned out to be true. Sixth form hadn't been great – he'd spent far too much time working on his A Levels and secretly googling 'Pendragon' and 'Camelot' to make many friends. In the posh public school where he'd ended up, he'd been labelled as the odd boy from day one.

 

But at least university had been better. He'd made quite a few friends on his course, and spent his undergraduate years in typical British fashion: drinking, studying, and wearing stupid dress-up costumes to themed evenings. There had even been a few boyfriends, whom he'd met through the LGBT+ society, of which he became secretary in his third year, but somehow none of them lasted longer than a month or so.

 

Every so often he'd wonder what might have happened if he'd been able to stay in Albion, maybe gone with Arthur and Morgana to Mercia University. Arthur had done history and economics, they could have shared a flat, maybe. But then Merlin's practical nature would intrude again, and he'd remember that there was no point worrying about things that could never have happened.

 

The news report was still going on. Merlin paused, putting down his pen to listen. He hadn't realised that Uther had died – he spared a thought for the cold, angry man who'd never seemed to approve of Merlin, but clearly loved his children more than anything. How must Arthur be feeling?

 

“ _...the state funeral this afternoon was a sombre affair, with emotional eulogies read both by the as-yet-uncrowned King Arthur and his sister Princess Morgana. Both were sedate, presumably having expressed their emotions at the small private funeral two weeks ago. A whole country is in mourning today for a king who ruled them for thirty years and was taken far too young. The King has had a weak heart for several years, often attributed to stress. His problems began at the attempted assassination of his son six years ago. Some believe he never really recovered from the shock, so his death last month, while sorrowful, is not entirely unexpected._

 

_What's – oh – breaking news here – King Arthur has declared a press conference this afternoon at four pm. No one's quite sure exactly why, but the world will be waiting avidly to see what this young royal, who has spent years avoiding the press, has to say. I can confirm that we'll be streaming the conference live on the BBC News Website. That's four pm this afternoon, on bbc.co.uk.”_

 

Merlin glanced at the clock. Just past one. It wouldn't hurt to watch the conference, would it? If he finished his marking, of course.

 

He turned back to the abominable sheet in front of him with renewed vigour.

 

*-*-*

 

Arthur took a deep breath from where he stood behind the doors that would open out onto his press conference. The small golden circlet on his head felt unbearably heavy, but this was one speech for which he needed to wear the crown, if only as a gesture.

 

Morgana came up next to him and touched his arm lightly. “Are you sure about this?”

 

He grinned at her reassuringly, trying to hide his nervousness. “Of course. We've been planning this for years. Besides, I think you'd murder me if I went back on my word now.”

 

“Murder's such a horrible word,” she joked. “You're definitely important enough for it to count as an assassination.”

 

Arthur held out his hand to her and nodded to the Knight in front of the doors. Arm in arm, they stepped forward into the flashing camera lights.

 

Once they reached the front of the room, Arthur patted Morgana's hand and headed for the podium, while she sat sedately on the divan which had been set out for that purpose.

 

Arthur took his notecards out of his front pocket, and set them down on the lectern. He didn't look at them though. This was a speech he'd been composing for years, and he had it down pat.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,

 

“I understand that you're all wondering why I've called this conference, particularly given my past history where I've tended to avoid courting unnecessary press interest.

 

“Firstly, I'd like to thank everyone who's expressed condolences upon the death of my father. Morgana and I would like to personally say that your good wishes have been crucial in helping us through this difficult time. We loved him very much, and we will always miss him and think of him. But we can only trust that he has joined our mother in the afterlife, and we believe that they were reunited there to spend eternity together.”

 

He paused to calm the choking in his throat. He saw from the corner of his eye as a tear dropped down Morgana's impassive face.

 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur carried on. “My father, King Uther the Fourth, was a great king. He steered this country through the turbulence of two world recessions, kept strong and calm during good times and bad, and built upon the thousand year foundations that Pendragons throughout history have lain, in order to make this country, our Albion, the greatest it has ever been. Brettagna is gone, ladies and gentlemen, but thanks to the tireless work of people like my father, Queen Elizabeth, and politicians in both nations, Britain and Albion are two great countries, following in its unique legacy.

 

“This legacy is not one to be taken lightly. The person who leads Albion, needs to be strong-willed, yet flexible and open to new ideas where necessary. He or she needs to be loving and kind, but above all Albion's monarch has to be someone who will put his or her country's interests above all else, including his or her own personal happiness.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not that person.”

 

He allowed the sudden shouts of questions which followed this statement for a few seconds, before raising his hands for silence. “Please allow me to finish; I'll take questions at the end.”

 

Once the room had quieted somewhat, though he could still hear the whispers of people desperately trying to get through to their editors on the phones, Arthur continued, finally revealing what he'd been desperate to say for about a decade.

 

“I can't do that, citizens of Albion. I cannot promise that I will put you before all else, whatever it may cost me. I've spent my whole life in this country. I love it, and you, my people, more than I can accurately put into words. But I cannot in good conscience take on the mantle of your king, not when I know that I am not by temperament suited to it, and there is someone who would make a far better ruler than me.

 

“For this reason, I am abdicating my throne in favour of my sister Morgana. Given that we have no laws favouring the male heir, only twenty minutes has ever been the difference that meant that I'd take the throne over her. Morgana is everything you need in a ruler – kind, fair and wise – and she actually enjoys politics!”

 

He smiled ruefully. “That's always been the crux of the matter. She will be a better ruler than I ever could be, because she cares more for the country than anything else and enjoys the work of fighting for you. So, for the sake of both myself, Morgana and Albion, I'm leaving behind the best person to rule.

 

“I say leaving behind, ladies and gentlemen, because I am leaving. I shall be taking full-time charge of the first overseas branch of the Albion Trust Fund, which my father set up five years ago and in which both my twin sister and I have always had active roles. The Trust is instrumental in advocating Human Rights causes, and provides help and assistance to victims both in Albion and elsewhere.

 

“I shall be moving to London in a few weeks time to oversee the preparations for the grand opening on the fifteenth of June.

 

“I know that this is unexpected for all of you, but I hope that you will support my decision. I truly believe that I am doing what's best for Albion, and I know that Morgana is going to be a fantastic Queen.

 

“I'm not King Arthur Pendragon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm just Arthur Pendragon, Chairman of the Albion Trust.”

 

Ceremonially, he raised his hands to his head, removed the crown, and walked towards Morgana. Her long blue dress rustled as she stood. She made to kneel, but Arthur grasped her shoulder and pulled her upwards. “Equals?” he asked with a grin.

 

She smiled through her tears. “Of course. I'm so proud of you.”

 

He put the circlet on her dark hair, where it clashed brilliantly, glinting in the flashes of what felt like a thousand cameras. They hugged, and it felt right, like this was the way things were supposed to be.

 

Arthur Pendragon took a deep breath, and turned to face the questions. But before he did so, he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pressed a button on his phone, finally sending the email that he'd spent all of that morning composing.

 

*-*-*

 

At five to four, Merlin had finally given in and abandoned his marking, instead going to his laptop to watch the live stream of Arthur’s press conference. He had to check four different news websites before he accepted that yes, he had just seen that. He rubbed the side of his left ear, and cocked his head. _Really?_ The world felt a little like it had tilted off its axis. He'd always just sort of assumed that Arthur would become King Arthur of Albion one day, a far-off unreachable figure, and maybe he'd tell his grandchildren one day that he'd used to go to school with a king, but they'd never believe him. Not that he'd thought about this a lot, of course.

 

But somehow, all this seemed right, if upside down. Even when they'd been children, Arthur was always far better nobly charging in to save people, than he was with anything that involved actual politics. Merlin had no doubt that Morgana was going to be fantastic. And they both looked so _happy_ in the video!

 

He was still trying to get his head around the fact that he and Arthur were actually going to be in the same country again when his phone chirped.

 

Without taking his eyes from the computer screen where Arthur and Morgana were smiling wider than he ever remembered seeing, he grabbed the phone from the desk. It was only when he glanced down at the sender of the email that he paused, hyperventilated a little, and opened it.

 

 **From:** [arthur.pendragon@albiontrust.org.ab](mailto:arthur.pendragon@albiontrust.org.ab)

**To:** [m_emrys@cardiff.ac.uk](mailto:m_emrys@cardiff.ac.uk)

 

 **Subject:** Hi

 

_Merlin -_

 

_So, I don't know if you've seen the news yet, but I've abdicated the throne to Morgana. I've always wanted to travel the world and live abroad, and this means I'll finally be able to. I'm going to be living in London, moving there next week, as I'm going to be leading the Albion Trust Fund, my charity. I'll probably have to travel a lot, to spread the message in different countries. It's what I've always wanted to do, and I think we both know Morgana's going to be a better ruler than I would have been._

 

_I just wanted to say, Merlin, since what the hell, I've rearranged my whole life today – why not one more thing? – that I never stopped loving you. I don't know if you're still single – I can't imagine that you are – but I just thought that you should know that I've never met anyone else that I wanted to be with. There's no expectations there; I just thought you should know._

 

_I'd love to come up and see you in Cardiff. Not because I want to pick up where we left off – I'm not an idiot – but just as friends, to catch up._

 

_How does next weekend sound?  Sunday?  I know it seems a bit forward and soon, but I'd really like to see you. I promise to let you correct my grammar again._

 

_Yours,_

 

_Arthur_

 

Merlin typed his reply into his phone with trembling fingers, as fast as he could. It was an instinctive response, no thought required.

 

 **From:** [m_emrys@cardiff.ac.uk](mailto:m_emrys@cardiff.ac.uk)

**To:** [arthur.pendragon@albiontrust.org.ab](mailto:arthur.pendragon@albiontrust.org.ab)

 

 **Subject:** Re:Hi

 

_Arthur -_

 

_I'll meet you at Cardiff Central Station at midday. Yes, I'm single. And no, there's never been anyone else for me either._

 

_Yours,_

_Merlin_

 

Merlin went back to the live stream on the BBC website and watched as Arthur, completely ignoring the reporter trying to get his attention, pulled his Blackberry out of his suit pocket, looked down at it, and smiled.

 

 

 


End file.
